


Brokeback Mountain 2: More Horses, Less Piss

by trivialtermite



Category: Cowboys - Fandom, Homestuck
Genre: Almost Drowning, Cowboys, Homoeroticism, Homophobia, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Multi, Nonbinary Jake English, Other, Past Child Abuse, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Trans Dirk Strider, Transphobia, alcohol mention, dirk strider is being mentally ill again, gay people arent winning today, listen stfu im gay and i will use all the stupid imagery and symbolism i want, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trivialtermite/pseuds/trivialtermite
Summary: in which gay people ride horses and fall in love
Relationships: Dirk Strider/Original Male Character(s), Jake English/Dirk Strider, Jake English/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 24





	1. Cowboy Bullshit Extravaganza: The First One

Well, here you are.

You gulp and stare down the path this cart has taken you on; you decided to take a more open-air ride. It's not every day you get permanent employment, after all, especially not in a place like this.

The grass is glossy and kelly green, sweeping over vibrant, jagged hills behind the homestead. Vast fields of wheat, barley, rye, and alfalfa sway in the soft, slightly chilly breeze that ruffles your hair and makes the landscape nearly shine, sheets of glossy sheen rippling over the hills. You smell tomatoes, daffodils, and, of course, cattle. A figure waits by the gate; A tall, broad young man in a questionably gaudy velvet button-down, blue boots, and billowy white trousers, waving to you enthusiastically. You get shivers at the sight of him: No matter how hard you try, interaction has always made you a bit nervous. You grew up essentially on your own, locked up in an apartment, never speaking to anyone, making conversation particularly difficult.

He calls out to you as he runs over, his voice a rough, pitchy warble, reminiscent of the songbirds from home.

"Would you be Dirk Strider, by any chance?"

You nod approvingly, trying to lean back against the wall of the cart while still looking cool, but you miscalculate and end up nearly lying down in the thing. Damn it.

"The one and only."

"Well butter my biscuits, it's fantastic to meet you, Dirk!"

As you sit up and try to get off the cart, he shakes your hand enthusiastically with both of his, making your head spin with the force of it. His hands are warm yet pretty smooth, despite bruised knuckles and close-bitten nails. His face is quite nice up close, too- Soft, curly dark hair is swept up in a quiff, sweet Paris green doe eyes staring up at you through thick squared glasses. He’s broad, tall, and strong-looking despite his smooth hands: He looks like a horse could ride him, for goodness’ sake. His smile makes his eyes crinkle just so, giving you an unwelcome flutter in your chest and an even less so weakness in your knees.

You notice he smells quite nice. Like daffodils.

"Uh...Yeah. Hi."

He continues, unfazed by your half-assed response.

"My pleasure! I've flagged down six people already; Glad I finally found you!

You eye him down warily. He waited out here and called out to a bunch of other people waiting for you? He might be more excited than his grandmother. He realizes the gravity of his statement and tenses up, waving a hand as if brushing away assumptions and drawing a handkerchief from his pocket to mop up the building nervous sweat on his face.

"Oh golly! No, no not like that! My goodness, I'm talking right out of my breech today; I don't sound like this even after a jolly good bumper! Really ought to learn to keep my crumpet, if you know what I mean!" He says, elbowing you conspiratorially.

You abso-fucking-lutely do not.

You stand there looking at each other before he straightens and pipes up again, tugging at his collar, his voice cracking like water in hot grease.

"Well, my goodness, sorry about the holdup! My grandmother gets quite angry when I act a right fizgig. I really ought to get you over to meet her: She's inside today: Spring cleaning, you know?"

Without a pause, he starts walking at breakneck speed down the path, turning around to gesture for you to follow him.

"Well, come on, then!"

You...You have no clue how to respond to him. Your legs move after him almost automatically, but your brain whizzes to catch up. You don't even realize you're at the door until you hear the clack of your boots on the wooden floor instead of the gravel path. You straighten up, taking a step back to wipe your feet, glancing resentfully at the landowner's son who opened the door for you.

Speaking of your soon-to-be boss, you look up to her standing over you. 

She has a sort of energy to her that you really can't explain: It's like she crackles with it. Her long, curly mane of greying dark hair provides a striking backdrop for her face; Wrinkly and grizzled, with about a thousand old scars you could ask about, but what catches you are her eyes. Nearly glowing in contrast to her face, a bone-chilling hue of key lime green. When she opens her mouth, she speaks in a friendly tone, contrasting starkly with her teeth which border on fangs.

"So you're the new farmhand, huh?"

You gulp, nodding as you speak. Come on, you went over your notes a thousand times for this.

"Yes, that's me. My name is Dirk Strider, and I sp-"

She shoves a hand in your face mid-sentence.

"Ah-ah-ah. All I needed was a yes."

You feel your face warm in embarrassment, but she only gives a barking laugh- at least she finds it amusing.

"Hah! Don't worry, you'll learn soon enough. If there's one thing Beau will teach you, it's how to shut up and work."

You look up, a bit bewildered.

"Beau? Who's Beau?"

"Our old cowboy. Been working here nearly seven years now, and he's been getting real cranky lately since our last guy quit. Hates having to handle the whole place himself.”

Oh, great. Some old, tough piece of gristle to beat you down until you hate this job. Bet he smells awful, too. Motherfucker.

"Beau, huh? Sounds like a piece of work."

The old woman laughs again, and the young man who greeted you whines from the door where he clings to the brass doorknob, speaking with disdain.

"Oh, come on! He isn't that bad!"

Your boss fondly squints at him, patting you firmly on the shoulder, dissipating giggles giving her voice an edge of satisfaction.

"That's rich. You've got it right, kid. Don't let him hear you saying that, though; Sensitive little guy, you know how it is.”

She turns her attention back to you, gesturing to herself.

"My name's Jade English, but Ms. Jade works nicely for me. This is my grandson, Jake. Try to ignore his fancy lingo: He's obsessed with those British boys that come through every so often.”

The farmer's son- apparently, Jake- flushes in the realization he never introduced himself, and possibly at the reveal of his ‘obsession’, tactfully leaving out the remark from his attempt to grab this conversation by the horns.

"Gadzooks! My apologies, Dirk!"

He takes your shoulder and spins you around, giving a little bow and another handshake, this time one-handed and with much less vigor.

"Jake Imogen Tomb Raider English, at your service! But, of course, just Jake to you, buddy."

He winks playfully, patting you on the shoulder. Ok, so it's not just you.

"Dirk...Dirk strider, again."

He opens his mouth as though to speak, but closes it at the look his grandmother gives him, stopping at a pat to your shoulder and a "Good to meet you, friend!". Ms. Jade tilts her head to the door.

"Beau's in the stables, red building on the left. He'll show you 'round and get you working, seeing as I'm damn busy today and can't do it myself."

She simply walks away, Jake, who shoots you one last smirk-and-a-wink trailing behind her, off to do some spring cleaning, you guess.

You walk out the door, and your mind finally has time to spiral. What the hell just happened? Jake talks like a drunk old man, and Jade scares you shitless. They did mention Kate, though: An old pen pal of yours, who mentioned she worked out here. She recommended you for the job and helped pay your fare to get out here. You happened to catch her brother in Louisiana- A sweet man that you've heard a lot about. Not all good things, but still.

You look to your left and see the stable: A brick building with rectangle cutouts by the roof, with a ceiling-high gate, left unlocked. You can't be sure what sort of leathery cowboy denizen lies within the wooden doors. You make your way closer to the building and feel your throat beginning to itch. God, who is this guy? You took a train out here from Texas, and for what? Yeah, sure, you had to get out of that place, but you have no clue who these people are.

And with that, you almost walk headfirst into the door. Come on! You stop cold, flailing a bit, trying to pitch backward away from the door. You stumble a bit, but steady yourself, brushing off your shirt. You take a deep breath and push the door.

It doesn't open.

You push again. Is it locked? Maybe the doors are just heavy. You dig your heels in and push with everything you have. Nothing. You take a mini running start and bang on the door again. Shit. You're about to run at it again, and take a few steps before a gruff, gravelly voice calls to you from inside.

"It's a PULL DOOR, DUMBASS! Stop bashing my shit in!"

You stumble and nearly fall over from the shock of it, but catch yourself with your badass acrobatic swordsman skills. You grab the handle of the door and pull it gingerly; It opens easily, albeit with some difficulty from the weight of the door.

You lean in and look around. The place smells strongly of horses but otherwise seems fairly well-kept. There are maybe eight horses, but a few more empty stalls- maybe thirteen in total, with one big one at the end. You step in cautiously and shut the door behind you, which slams way louder than you were ready for. You cringe at the noise and look over the stable. A head pops up over the gate, then a torso after he sees you.

He's much younger than you expected- around your age. His fairly short, straw-colored hair hangs in his eyes until he sweeps it out of the way with a quick swipe from his gloved wrist. His face is blocky and harsh, with protruding brows and cheekbones- reminiscent of one of Dave’s last boyfriend’s half-finished sculptures. He has a few smallish scars running over his jaw, his temples, and a small one over the corner of his mouth that crinkles with his scowl. He crosses his arms over his chest as he looks at you with exasperation, his shoulders and chest straining against the smooth fabric of his shirt, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He waves at something, and the way he flexes with it… Fuck. He’s waving at you.

“You stupid? Hello?”

“Shit. Yeah, hi. I’m-”

He interrupts you.

“The new farmhand or dead meat?”

You fidget with the hem of your coat.

“Uh. The new farmhand.”

He bends back over, picks up a few horse brushes, and leaves the stall. He’s about your height, too- Something you’ve only seen in another guy a few times. His torso and legs are pretty balanced: You’re no queer, but the man’s got stallion thighs if you’ve ever seen them. Holy shit horses are so cool.

He drops the brushes in a basket, his gloves on a shelf, and turns to you.

“What’s your name?”

Shit. What is your name? Come on. Fuck. It’s not that hard.

“D...Dirk. My name’s Dirk Strider.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Dirk Strider?”

“Yeah. You heard me.”

His brow furrows again. Oh, God. You’re gonna fight him and get fired. The horses are gonna get scared and crush your head like a fucking canteloupe. You’re gonna die here.

When he speaks, his voice is flat and rough.

“What was that?”

“...Nothing.”

“Good. C’mon, Dick.”

He pushes past you, bumping your shoulder with his arm. Dick? Really? Well, forget his comment, the words of a bitter little poopy man if anyone asks you, but still. You may as well try to make conversation if you’re working with this guy for a while.

“So...Jade said you’ve been working here for seven years. How old are you now?”

“Nineteen.”

“So...You’ve been working here since you were twelve?”

“Officially, yeah.”

“Officially?”

“Been here since I was nine, got hired at twelve. I just got my paycheck later.”

“Huh...Why did you start working so early? Did you need the money or…?”

“Might as well.”

God, can he say twenty words to you? The guy barely talks; he and Jake must get along great. Well, he’s the same age as you, and you can’t assume Jake is that much older. Quite the coincidence, you guess. You realize you have no fucking clue where he’s taking you.

“Hey...Where are we going, exactly?”

“Bunkhouse.”  
You come to a realization you weren’t prepared for.

“Wait… Bunkhouse? As in shared rooms?”

He stops and turns around to look at you. He jerks up his chin, gesturing vaguely to you.

“Where you from, chatterbox?”

You shuffle your feet awkwardly.

“Padre Island, in Texas. Traveled a lot, though.”

“There it is.”

You look back up at him, a little confused. What the hell could that mean? He must notice the confusion on your face because he keeps talking for once.

“If you travel, you must have had money. Smooth hands, full suit, scared of horses. Could see it a mile off.”

“I’m not scared of horses.”

For once, he laughs- Well, it sounds more like a gagging cat than a laugh, but it’s there.

“When you first got in the stable you looked like you were gonna shit yourself, and I can see just fine, honey. You’ll get over it soon enough.”

You flush. Not only did he just call you a fucking coward, but he also dared to call you honey in the same breath. He keeps walking, and you two slowly approach a building. The outside is wooden planks with a small porch and a few windows, unpainted but well-kept. The red bricking of the roof glistens with heat as Beau steps onto the porch and opens the door. He walks right in, but you approach with a bit more caution. How could anyone blame you: You have no clue what he could be keeping in here!

But, in a feat of man strength, you press onward.

You stand in the doorway and look around. The place smells of wood smoke- nice, but worrying in this context- pine and a hint of the goddamn daffodils. He gestures to what is presumably your bed- It looks fine, the blankets are a little thin, but with this place being as warm as it is you can see why. There’s a small kitchen, a table, a couple of chairs, a nice little stove in the corner, and, of course, two beds. A cat lies spread out on the rug, at peace in a sunbeam. Beau grabs his hat off the nightstand and flips it in his hands, turning around and looking to you.

“Well? Look alright?”

You look around, taking in the place. Different than you’re used to, definitely, but it’s pretty nice. The gossamer curtains sway in the light breeze from the door, and you have a desk to work at.

You think you might like this place.

“Hello?”


	2. Cowboy Bullshit Extravaganza: They Almost Kiss

Ok, maybe this place sucks a little bit.

The last few weeks have been awful; You aren’t wrangling cattle or having shootouts as you heard. The most exciting thing they have you doing is watering plants and trimming grass. You’re barely talking to anyone, and the highlight of your day now is collapsing into that godforsaken bed that’s maybe five feet from Beau, who snores like a bitch and seems to have dedicated himself to making your life hell.

On the other hand, Jake’s been almost too friendly; He introduced you to all the neighbors, offers you candies he’s plundered from Jade’s pantry, for fuck’s sake he brings you flowers. He always greets you with a kiss on either cheek, a little bow, et cetera. He’s even offered to take you on trail rides maybe ten times by now but, of course, you don’t know how to ride.

But it seems like the sweetness has rubbed off on Beau.

It all started with a simple gesture- The other day, you had been talking about what you missed from the estate. You’ve been missing a lot of things alright, but the cookies more than anything. The next day, when you were getting ready to read a little before bed, he’d left a tin of the cookies you’d mentioned on your nightstand. Sure, he’d taken a few, but it still made you wonder.J

So, while not quite as shocking as it could have been, it still caught you when he offered to teach you.

He asked it casually- You were talking about how you couldn’t take up Jake’s offers and he just offered to teach you out of the blue.

Now you’re standing in the stable in scratchy, awful blue jeans, watching him tack up the horse he’ll be teaching you how to ride, and failing to listen to the constant stream of information he’s providing about this one particular horse. You’re pretty sure he’s said more in the last hour than he has since you met.

“...And she’s very good-tempered, doesn’t scare easily. Quarter horses tend to be well-rounded, but she’s particularly agreeable. A smooth trot, too- Great for beginners, you see…”

He keeps talking as he hunts for her saddle, and you look deeply into the horse’s eyes. She’s a beautiful horse, as all of them are; A gorgeous buckskin mare, with a thick, glossy coat and mane, kept in a long, sweeping braid which Beau described the process of implementing in painful detail. She looks back at you, almost a little dreary. Oh, God, she hates you. She’s going to kick you off. You’re going to die here.

Beau pats the horse’s shoulder firmly, beaming at you- The noise scares you back into reality, and you look towards him.

“Alright, then! Well, let’s get going!”

You go to speak, but find your throat feeling gummy and dry, simply nodding at him. He practically skips out the gate, which scares you more than anything else you’ve seen yet. You drag your feet behind him, trying not to focus on your impending doom.

The sun glares, even through your sunglasses, bleaching the landscape in midday light. Beau walks the horse to the edge of the fence, tying her lead to a post. He turns to you, the wide brim of his hat shading his face, his chartreuse eyes remaining owlish and incessantly bright as always, waving you over.

“Well, come on, then!”

You stumble across the satiny green towards him, your stomach turning from nerves. After you get a little closer, he takes a better look at you, squinting and twisting his face in the way he does when he thinks. Something seems to click, and he shakes his head, eyes down.

“Right. Scared of horses.”

You hurry to object, hoping he doesn’t notice the wobble in your knees or the clamminess of your skin.

“What? No! Why would I be scared of some dumb horse?”

“You’ve never seen one before, that’s why. You think it’ll crush your head in.”

You swallow nervously.  
“I...No. I wouldn’t let a horse do that to me.”

“You say that, but you know as well as I do there’s no use in it. A horse could grind you to a pulp if it wanted to; Your fear is reasonable.”

You pause for a moment, and he looks up at you again.

“Why don’t you try petting her?”

You stop cold, looking at him like he’s asked you to fly. At that, he simply shrugs.

“Couldn’t hurt. C’mon, give it a go.”

You shift, shuffling towards the horse. God… The thing’s huge. The snuffling noises it’s making give you goosebumps. You hesitate, holding your hand out to its side, shaking. The horse shifts its weight and you stumble backward, starting to fall.

But, to your surprise, you’re caught. 

A strong arm grabs your bicep, another wraps around your waist. Your shirt hitches up a little, his rough fingers brushing your skin just so. You find your mind going blank, fuzzy, your mouth feeling like it’s full of feathers. The warmth of his fingers, of the soft linen of his sleeves, soaking right into your bones. You’ve never been this close to him before; he smells of sage and lemon and the horses he so loves. But, disregarding sweet warmth and smells and the heady humiliation of falling, all you can focus on is how strong he is. For such a small guy, he didn’t seem to struggle to catch you, even with the awkward way he holds you away from his chest. You glance down, at the side of your waist where his hand holds onto you, and gawk at the two fingers holding your attention.

"Whoa there!"

You look up at him, and your eyes meet or, well, as best they can with sunglasses on. His eyes are a striking chartreuse, even through the bottle green glass shielding your own.

"...Dirk?"

"Oh. Shit, sorry."

You scramble to your feet, with the help of a gentle shove from him. 

"...It attacked me, you know."

"Oh, come on. She did not."

He looks you up and down again, almost concerned.

"Y'know what… Here."

He reaches out, taking your hand in his. This is the first time you've really, genuinely touched his hands- Most of the time he's careful to hand you stuff without affording too much skin-to-skin contact, but not today.

His skin is rough and smooth, like you noticed when he held you; What you didn't notice was the borderline feverish heat radiating from his palms, the strength in the grip of his fingers. His nails are short and his knuckles are scarred, but his palms are softer than you thought- in an old, worn leather sort of way.

He sets his hand on top of yours, and presses your hand into the horse's side. Her fur's soft and warm, almost as much as his skin. Your hand slides over her thin, glossy buckwheat coat, as Beau guides it gently with his own. For once in your life, you feel no desire to talk- just to keep holding his hand like you are.

After a minute of this, he pulls his hand away, speaking through gritted teeth.

“C’mon, you ready? She ain’t gonna bite you.”

You turn to him, still feeling a little weak in the knees but less apprehensive.

“I...Ok. Fine. I’ll go on the goddamn horse.”

He nods and walks towards her, putting a foot in her stirrup.

“See, you just do it like this. I’ll give you a boost, but you step in here and swing your leg over real easy.”

“What...What if the saddle slides off? I’m not hurting the horse, nor am I about to come face to face with a literal horse’s ass.”

“It won’t. C’mon.”

He takes a knee, looking up at you expectantly. God, do you just… stand on him? The fuck? Something about this gives you the feeling of stepping on a rattlesnake: You eye him warily, but he just stares right back at you. Come on, Strider. Don’t be a baby. You set your foot gently on his knee, glancing away and back at him trying to see if you’re doing it right or, rather, if you have to jump away- You don’t think he’d take too kindly to being stepped on against his will. Jesus Christ, couldn’t he have been a *little* more instructional?

He rolls his eyes and pats his thigh firmly.  
“Come on. We’re low on time; I ain’t gonna bite you.”

“I...Ok. God, this is weird.”

“Get on the damn horse.”

"..'Kay."

You bite your tongue and put your weight on his knee, managing to get your foot in the stirrup. Ok, fine, this isn't so bad. You go to swing your leg over like he showed you, but the saddle shifts down as you put your weight on the stirrup. Fuck. God fucking damn it.

Before you get a chance to shrink away and jump off before the damn thing slides off, Beau grabs you by the ankle, his other hand on your lower back.

"Come on, get over the damn thing!"

He tosses you over the horse, propelling your fragile little body over the side of its saddle. You outstretch your arms in a haphazard attempt to save your ass, entirely frozen and silent out of fear that you have no plans to express because you’re a Strong Man. You slam hard into the saddle, nearly sliding over the other side. You grab the pommel quickly and manage to steady yourself; The horse spooks, but you’re… actually alright. You marvel at how high you are off the ground, and Beau, looking comically short from where you stand, looks up at you with a smile.

“Well? You feelin’ ok?”

“I… Yeah. Yeah, this is kind of cool, actually.”

“See? Told you it wouldn’t be that bad.”

“Actually, you didn’t say that.”  
“What you did say was, and I quote, ‘A horse could grind you to a pulp if it wanted to; Your fear is reasonable.’ That sure doesn’t sound like ‘not that bad’ to me, buddy.”  
“I get that you tend to try and rewrite shit that already happened, but come on. Try harder.”

He goes silent, visibly bewildered. He sneers at you, more confused than malicious.  
“How the fuck did you remember that?”

“I just did. Not my fault everything about me is inherently superior to your tiny peanut brain, high on my metaphorical and literal high horse, but not in a bad way.”

“H… Huh?”

“See? You can’t even comprehend my absolute genius. My absolutely massive brain, which is the largest and only organ my body contains, is just thumping around inside this prison of flesh that, unlike you, I find to simply be a very handsome restriction for my aforementioned hugely massive brain.”

“That is, excluding my massive cock. Ah yes, the gargantuan meat mallet that swings about betwixt my legs, free as a wild hen. Get the chicken joke? I bet you don’t. I bet you don’t even know what a chicken is. I bet you’ve never seen a cock before- not a chicken or your own, because clearly from the way you act, your cock is so tiny you can’t see it if it exists at all. It’s an urban legend that no one cares enough to actually research. Like jackalopes.”

“I bet you have seen another dude’s cock, though, because clearly you’re gay as fuck. God, you wish you could see mine, because you’re a gay little beta male who wishes he could get fucked by an alpha male like me. I mean, seriously. Look at you and your stupid fucking twenty gallon horse trough of a hat. But maybe your hat isn’t even that big, your head is just so tiny it looks fucking huge. I wouldn’t know anything about that, though, because my head is perfectly normal  
sized. Unlike yours.” 

“And even more so unlike my massive, ever-swinging dick and balls. Yeah, that’s right. Bet your whole arm couldn’t hold up to the sheer girth of the thing. Hell, your whole pathetic little *body* couldn’t measure up to the massive, veiny erection that I constantly have, not out of fear, but out of sheer alpha dominance. Yeah, that’s right. Bet you’ve never been hard in your life. Bet your tiny pathetic little beta dick can’t even penetrate anything.” 

“It’s just too small, man. Give it up. You’re doomed to get pegged for the rest of your flaccid life, because your hypothetical wife that you’re never gonna have because no woman could tolerate your wimpy presence has a bigger cock than you. Bigger than you could ever have. Bigger than you could ever dream of. Well, joke’s on you buddy, that wife is me. That wife isn’t even a wife, he’s a husband, because he is me. Me and my massive, tungsten-steel-hard cock that you just look at and start salivating because you wish you could suck me off so bad. God, you wish you could.” 

“But you’re never gonna get to, because I’m clearly straight. I’m so straight. Straight as an arrow that I’m gonna use to shoot this fucking deer. That’s right. I’m a man who hunts and looks all rugged and sexy. Sexier than you could ever be. My lips are so much softer and smoother than your scruffy, chapped lips and your breath that totally doesn’t smell softly of rosemary and coffee. The only time I could *ever* kiss you is out of sheer pity. Which, to be fair, could happen very easily. You’re very pitiable, because you’re so pathetic.”

“I bet you’re about to just collapse onto the floor and start sobbing, because you just realized you’ve encountered a guy with a dick about a hundred times bigger than yours. Bigger than a horse’s dick. No, fuck it. Bigger than the whole fucking horse. You’re crying and shaking because you wish you could feel my dick fucking you so hard you’re sucking the tip while it’s in your ass, you sick fuck. Yeah, that’s right. You’re so sad and pathetic all the time and of course I’m not slouching. That's right, I remembered, because I’m just so much smarter than you.”

A silence falls over the both of you. You could hear a pin drop.

"Just… Just grab the reins already."

Your hands fumble hastily, trying to create any distance between you and whatever the fuck you just said you can.

"Straighten your back."

Fuck.

"N...No. I'm not doing that."

"Why?"

Oh, god. Hold it back, Dirk.

"..."

Hold it in.

"....."

Come on.

"Well-"

Fuck.

"Ah-ah-ah! No! No. Shut the fuck up."

He sets his hand on the small of your back, and you twinge away on instinct, straightening up.

“Just like that. Hold that.”

He tugs a bit on the martingale, and the horse follows him into the ring.

You practice with him for a few weeks after that; Lots of you talking, him yelling- At least you’re not almost falling off the damned thing anymore, though. What frustrates you, though, what makes you ill, what absolutely does not butter your goddamn biscuit is Jake's response to you telling him you’d been practicing in passing.

“Oh, really? We could’ve just rode double, silly! I’m sure you’re not as bootless as Beau insists.”

“I… We could have done what?”

“Rode double, Dirk!”

“No, I heard you. Are you proposing that you slap me on the back of a horse, sprint us down a bumpy dirt road, crash and get us killed?”

“No! Oh come on, don’t take me for some frilly coxcomb. I know how to ride a horse better than most!”

“Some.. Ok. Fine. Let’s say you know how to ride a horse, which I’m sure you don’t, speaking as the master of all horses. Which horse will you pick to take me on my death ride? Because, according to Beau, all the horses except for Spelt have killed people before, and Spelt doesn’t do well with rough terrain.”

“Oh, he told you all that? Jeepers creepers, he really likes to dramatize things. No, none of the horses have killed people- he’s just a very grumpy little guy who likes to talk shit.”

“What about Peaches? The Mighty Peaches, Destroyer of Souls? Bonebreaker Peaches?”

“Oh, he’s just mad Peachy kicked him in the bollocks one time. She’s usually fine, she just hates having her tail brushed: I’m telling you, he’s far too rough!”

“...Peaches kicked him in the nuts?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Was it as funny as it sounds?”

He nods gravely.

“Even more so. Beau thinks himself a quite froward fella, but he screams like a little girl.”

He laughs aloud and, while you’re a man of no feelings, you crack your signature one-pixel smile. It strikes you just how joyous his laugh really sounds- High and a little snorty, but it sounds like he’s thoroughly enjoying himself. He just seems so full of life- reminiscent of peacock feathers, something citrusy. Daffodils.

“Well? Why not go? It’s a gorgeous day; Early enough, and Beau always packs me lanterns and lighters- I tend to get lost.”

“Are… You want to go now?”

“Well, why not? Beau can get the horses ready to go in a jiffy. The picnic might have to wait- He’s been awfully crabby today, and certainly isn’t in any kind of a mood to make little sandwiches- But we can certainly have a nice ride and some tea!”

You… So you’re going to get on a horse with this motherfucker and ride into the sunset. That sounds kinda gay.

“Yeah, sure.”

You’re not gay, but he is, and you pity him.

Part 2 chapter 2 bc it feels wrong not 2 section it off shut up bitch

Wow.

You’re on the back of a horse, your arms around Jake’s waist, trotting through the lush forests on the outskirts of Jade’s land. You’re behind the saddle, fingers laced together in an attempt to hang on. Jake figured it would be best if you rode behind; he’s the more experienced rider, and you’re a lot smaller, putting less stress on the horse. Of course you hated to hear it, but still.

You could never focus on directing a horse like this anyway.

The soft, smooth linen of his flowy white shirt, embroidered delicately with pearlescent brocades around every edge of fabric brushes your face. The thing must have been revoltingly expensive, but then again, most things he owns are- the guy lives to an almost impressive standard of unbridled hedonism that you could never think to match. Speaking of, he smells strongly of what he informed you is French perfume, and a little stronger of the French wine he forgot to include.

You have to admit, though, despite your squeamishness about letting a possibly-tipsy dude possibly drive this horse off a cliff with you on it, the view’s gorgeous.

You’re coming up on the pond you two were going to drink your tea and eat a few emergency biscuits- apparently, Jake has a habit of impromptu trail rides, and Beau prepared accordingly- and it’s way different than anything you’re used to. You’re riding on a packed-down dirt trail, apparently yet another one of Beau’s landscaping ambitions that never quite came to fruition but still makes for a nice place to ride a horse on, watching the way the pear-green grass glistens in the sunlight- baking, but less so than a little while ago before the breeze came in.

Eventually, you two arrive at the lake, and Jake wastes no time hopping off the horse, nearly taking you with him, and offering you his hand.

“Right this way, m’lord!”

You hesitate for a moment, remember you’ve never gotten off a horse on your own, and take his hand. You’re a little busy thinking about how smooth his skin is when he wraps an arm around your midsection, sweeping you off the horse and onto the ground in one swift movement, making your stomach flip.

“There we go! No muss no fuss, now to the beach!”

He leads the horse to the beachside, tying her lead around a tree and relieving poor, sweet Grace Augustine of the bags she’s been burdened with, sweeping the pale canvas sheet onto the long grass, scaring away any small animal within a 100-mile radius in the process. You take the picnic basket and set it on the tarp, as he sits down, enjoying the sunlight in a similar manner to Beau’s cat, Dandelion. Jake pats the spot next to him in palpably good spirits, smiling brightly.

“Come on, sit down buddy! You ought to be sore after that ride.”

You sit next to him in the more dappled edge of the tarp- you’ve never really found a comfortable temperature, but bright sunlight on a day like this certainly isn’t it. Jake opens up the wicker basket, withdrawing a glass flask of what you certainly hope is tea, two cups, and a rectangular tin with a few cats on it, which he immediately opens. He holds a cookie out to you; you hesitate to take it, but you eventually give in and take it from him, waiting for him to pour the tea. It’s not that you’re bad at pouring drinks, you’re good at everything you’ve ever tried in your life, but it would be best if he did it just so you don’t embarrass him with your amazing tea-pouring skills.

Disregarding your little moment, you two hang around the pond and watch the sun make its way through the sky. You talk about philosophy and what makes a life in solitude all the better to know thyself, and he talks about beekeeping. God, all the fucking beekeeping.

You had never realized that Jake did much of anything except lay around on silk fainting couches and eat grapes, but you found out there’s much more to him than that. He’s an athlete- a casual one, but an athlete nonetheless- and loves rock climbing dearly. He cares for the bees on the farm, and quite enjoys helping Beau garden- he’s the only reason the sweet peas have survived, according to him- and has a special affinity for collecting little articles of history that officially should’ve been donated to the local museum, but instead remain in his bedroom, confined to watch him live out his days in muscular, jiggly-chested agony. 

The talk quickly stills to a rather awkward halt, though. You bit into one of the cookies mid-sentence and got a little overexcited, smearing a bit of jam on your face. Before you’ve even slowed down enough to acknowledge your mistake, Jake chimes in.

“Oh dear, let me get that!”

His thumb brushes across your cheek, and you stop cold. He pulls his hand away, as quick as it came, and licks his thumb with a smile and a well-intentioned yet shamelessly erotic moan.

“Mmmmh. Jumping juniper, Beau really does make the best jam out there, doesn’t he?”

You don’t even have it in you to nod. You have no clue what that did to you, but your head is spinning and your face is hot and oh god that was on your face. Jake’s looking up at you, the top four or five buttons of his shirt undone, satiny lips and big green doe eyes glistening in the dying, golden light. He’s laid out, draped over the rough fabric you kneel on like it’s some sort of plush mattress, stretched out and at ease. He’s reminiscent of some ancient Greek statue in form- of course, minus the trademark tiny dick.

“Dirk?”

He’s waving his hand in front of your face, sitting up now, and you jump back in shock.

“Gee willikers, Dirky! What’s got you so startled?”

“I… Saw a spider. On your shirt.”

He looks down at his shoulder and simply laughs.

“Ah. Must have gotten away from me then. Quite observant!”

He laughs and squeezes your arm, and your brain’s firing warning shots. His perfume is so strong, and his hands are too, and his lips are so smooth and shiny and you’re getting a really good view of his face right now. Your faces are maybe two inches apart and you’re focusing on his soft little puffs of breath on your face and he’s going half-lidded when he suddenly straightens up, releasing your arm.

“Well, we ought to be heading back! The bugs will be out to get our goat in a moment and bug bites’re a load of tripe.”

He jumps to his feet and you hurry to throw the near-empty flask and cookie tin in the bag as he shoves the blanket back into its bag. You look back at him, and he’s hopping on the horse like you’re running from something. He stops for a moment once he’s astride the thing, a long pause only interrupted by the bullfrogs, and looks down at you, gingerly extending his hand.

“...Care for a lift?”

You take a deep breath and pat the horse’s flank gently before removing your hand. You take his and hop up behind him, hesitantly leaning forward, your arms around his waist and your cheek between his shoulder blades. He gently eases Grace into a walk- even she seems done with your shit now.

You two ride home under the setting sun and, by the time you get back, the ranch is alight with reflected orange from the sky. Beau sits on the porch, muttering quietly to himself and working on his knitting. He looks up at you and jerks his head up, acknowledging your presence, before returning to his precious scarf or whatever.

Jake offers to help off the horse once more, and you ease to the ground beside him as Beau takes Grace and starts leading her back to the stable. This time, though, he doesn’t immediately relinquish your hand. This time, he looks intently at your hand and its long, slender fingers- the hands of an architect, far different from his strong, deft digits- spreading your fingers between his palms.

“I had a good time today, Dirk.”

“...Me too.” You struggle to answer, focusing on the way his fingers are rubbing circles into the top of your hand.

“We should do this again sometime; maybe with a bit more warning for poor Beau on our next go.”

“...Yeah.”

He smiles and leans in towards you, pulling your hand towards him, planting a soft kiss on your cheek, and muttering softly; “Until morrow, dear friend.”

He straightens up, hands a tad sweaty and smiling awkwardly, letting go of your hands. He turns around and jogs inside, weak-kneed and just as excited as you are. You press your hand to your cheek and stare at the door long after he’s disappeared into it, and all you can remember is the way his lips brushed you.

Just as soft as they looked.


	3. Cowboy Bullshit Extravaganza: Homoerotic Cow Wrestling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok yeah fucked it up heres the actual fuckn chapter

Damn.

The rain beats down on you in sheets, and Beau’s dragged you out to help him drag the cows inside. Usually he’d insist on doing this himself, but the fog’s made it so anything more than ten feet in front of you blurs into everything else. You’re behind the herd, tapping at their legs with the long, swishy sorting pole Beau handed to you. You and a few of the temporary farmhands Jade hired for the summer are doing quite well, tapping along the dairy herd with ease. Beau and the oldest of the bunch, who’s quite tall but utterly clueless, are up front wrestling with the bulls; Beau said you had to take them in separately, but then the rain really started coming down and you ended up having to take them in together. Every now and then you’ll hear a few loud hoofbeats and Beau’s voice, cutting through the rain like a foghorn, cussing out poor Matthew.

“Damn it, damn it! Can’t you see, bastard!?”

“Sorry! I didn’t know he’d gotten-”

“Shut up! Shove over, I’m taking this side.”

After a few moments of, presumably, Beau shoving the other man up front aside, some of the bulls’ stamping becomes irregular. You have no clue what’s happening, until the horrible thing barrels through the fog and nearly runs you over, scaring the poor cows shitless. Beau runs after it as you try to calm down the cows, but Matthew let another one of the bulls go. It goes chasing Beau, too- You stare into the milky swathes of fog, wondering what’s going on fifty feet away in all that noise. It would sound comical, if he wasn’t against a pair of furious creatures five times his size. You turn around and see the other hands are still trying to tap the cows towards the barn; You can press into the fog and possibly help scrape Beau off the ground if it’s too late for him.

You rush in, walking stick in hand, and analyze the scene.

The bulls are trying to fight- Beau’s doing his best to try and hook in the bigger one’s nose lead, after he broke the last one, but the interference seems to be pissing him off even more.

He turns his head to Beau, catching him on the dull stubs of his horns. Beau goes flying, smacking his head on the ground once his sorry ass lands. You run over to him- the fight will resolve soon enough anyway- taking a knee to see if he’s dead yet. He’s gotten the wind knocked out of him entirely, lying on the soaked grass, wheezing.

“You ok, man?

His voice is more of a squeak than anything- You can’t say you’re surprised, what with the way he landed.

“Mhm,”

He tries to get up, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Y...Yeah. Fuck.”

He gets himself sitting up, with his head clamped between his knees.

“Just… Just take a nose lead. We had ‘em in before they got away. One of the fuckers tore his out- I’ll get a new one in.”

“You good, dude?”

“...Yeah. Yeah, I’m alright.”

You pat him on the shoulder and hop up, walking briskly towards one of the bulls, which have now separated. You take the lead he mentioned, from the bull whose nose *isn’t* bleeding. Neither of them seem seriously injured, thankfully- just seems like the one who threw Beau messed up his septum a bit.

“You think you can grab the other one?”

“Yeah. Just… Just had to catch my breath.”

He stands up, rolling his shoulders sorely. He’s back on his feet in a few seconds, shuffling over to the other bull. In a few seconds, he’s walking a few feet away from you, seemingly unscathed. He’s grinding his teeth and making that face he does when he thinks: It’s not a pretty one, but it sure is clear what’s going on in there. You can practically hear the little cogs in his brain turning.

Eventually, you get the bulls in. Beau yells at the stable boys for a while before they run off to the barracks, and you two trudge through the pouring rain again into the cabin. Beau shakes off like a dog in the doorway, much to your chagrin. You look down and feel your stomach turn- Without the rain pouring like it did, he might… Fuck. Your shirt is soaked to the skin, and not only does it feel awful, you’re absolutely sure he’s going to literally kill you dead where you stand. After all, it is widely known that boobies are a federal crime. Absolutely unforgivable. Break out the guillotine, y’all, someone has titties in their purse. Some lady stumbles and the snaps fly open and, bam, a pair of titties hit the floor. They kind of just shlap the floor as they fall, an echoing noise that makes everyone just absurdly uncomfortable and alerts the guards.

“Don’t worry, you can change in the bathroom. I’ll just do it here.”

“Just… Here?”  
“We have curtains, and you can’t see shit in this weather. Who will see me, Charlie?”

He gestures to the cat’s general location- peacefully asleep under the couch in her favorite spot, dead to the world. Without saying much, you grab a few things from your dresser and sprint into the bathroom to get changed: Disregarding any possible hazards, you really detest wet clothing.

You knock on the door, unsure of whether you can leave- Bastard really just stripped down right there. Whore.

“Uh… You done?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitantly open the door, but Beau is nowhere to be seen. You round the corner and he’s in the kitchen, looking over the countertops.

“Maybe we ought to have a treat today.”

“Hm?”

“You allergic to anything?”

“Uh. Just milk, I think.”

“Knew that one. I’m making pie; got a favorite kind?”

You pause and contemplate: You don’t remember the last time you’ve really had a pie.

“The peaches are good right now. You like those?”

You’ve never had a fucking peach. Dave hates them, so you never really had them in the house, nor did you feel the particular need to seek them out. What the hell would you do with a peach, after all? Dave called them baby fruit, because they were fuzzy like a baby’s head. Then he kind of just went on a rant about how hamsters eat their babies when nervous or kind of just whenever they fucking feel like it, and how sand tiger sharks eat each other in the womb, and why he hates babies because he’s afraid of commitment. When he reached that point, you kind of just stopped listening.

“Dirk. Peaches or not.”

“Uhh. Sure. Fine. Those are fine.”

He leans over and grabs a few from one of the baskets on the table, and starts cutting. You walk away and sit on the bed, scouring your bookshelf for something decent to read as he cooks.

You settle on rereading Eclogues again, and settle in, spreading a blanket over yourself. Maybe twenty pages in, Beau starts talking for once.

“Why’d you come here, anyway?”

“Hm?”

“Why’d you leave Padre Island? I’ve been; it’s a nice place.”

You freeze. In all honesty, the main reason you left that fucking sandbar was to try and make some kind of a fresh life for yourself. There’s only so many people on that little island- You were locked in the closet with no key in sight. You ended up with a reputation for being a shut-in: After all, what’s the point in making friends if they have no clue who you are? What’s the point in staying, looking over vast swathes of homes, all intricately built and full of potential, knowing full well that everyone inside wants you dead? That constant thrum, that constant reminder that you are unwelcome- Questions from would-be friends about what you’re wearing to the church social, pinched cheeks and stabbing, whitewater conversations between old ladies as to whether you’ll be a nurse or just a wife when you’re older, the constant assault of a name that was never yours, of expectations never meant to be placed upon anyone, but especially not you. Their olive branches were hickory, set alight and swishing through the air- Not an arm of peace, but a switch of war, carved to quell the desires of the rude, unworthy child you were deemed to be long, long ago.

“...Personal?”

“No. Just… Didn’t like it there. People were too stuffy.”

“Mmh. Makes sense.”

You go quiet for a moment.

“Seems like it’s just hard to get away from stuffy fuckers.”

“...Yeah.”

“Is that why you left?”

He nods.

“Berlin was full of them. Thinking they’re so great for living in the capital- Oh, fuck off. Houses are too expensive for most people to live there anyway, all it means is you’re a good bloodsucker or you’ve owned a house there for too long to leave.”

“Really? I thought it’d be different there: Different political climate and all, maybe they’d be a little more open.”

“No. I’ve been to quite a few places, and it’s all the same. The very wealthy are the same ticks they have always been, the others’ faces downtrodden, no matter the politics.”

The corner of his lips tip up in a grimace, and he looks at you wryly.

“You won’t see me praising capitalism either though, trust me.”

“Really? We’re in Alabama, man. Half the population’s so horny for capitalism they can’t even take it.”

He laughs.

“Hell no! Capitalism favors its leaders and its leaders only: The whole way the system is built makes it so that there are perpetually people lower on the social scale, working for those higher up.”

“You get it. The whole American political system was built to push people down- Let’s think on a base concept scale, not even considering how horribly it’s been executed. If the whole basis of it is that the harder you work, the more you’ll get, then what happens to those at the bottom? At best, they’re throwing the poor to the wolves. At worst, it’s made to extinguish people who might have ‘less’ to offer from a physical, industrial standpoint: Disabled people, mentally ill people, essentially anyone who can’t handle the unbelievable workload expected just to survive, let alone flourish.”

“See, exactly! Neither of us were built to survive capitalism- Hell, no one is, unless you’re a white, cis, straight man who was born rich. I’m lucky Jake took a liking to me in school, or I probably wouldn’t be speaking to you now.”

You crack open a good old half-smile, saved only for special occasions.

“Seems like you’re not as dumb as you sound.”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“No. I don’t talk much and I’d rather die than go back to math, but I’m sure not stupid.”

You go quiet for a moment. You guess you must have seemed worried, because he keeps talking.

“...I never took you as stupid. Foolish, maybe; Socially incompetent, sure, but you seem to know… Too much for your own good.”

You’re startled by his accusation.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean? Knowing things is perfectly fine.”

“Oh, you know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s… Almost charming, in a way.”

His eyes dart away from you, focusing on the peaches. You feel your face warm, your heart speeding up a little. You don’t get compliments often, so they tend to feel a little funny when they do come your way.

“I… Thanks.”

“Nah, you’re welcome.”

You sit there in silence for a moment, trying to steady the erratic pounding in your chest, and Beau has to set down the knife for a minute. God, why’d that mess with both of you so bad? All he did was say your stupid rants were charming- It’s not like he wants to suck you off. But he has the social skills of a wild hog; there’s no feasible way he said that just to be nice. No, of course he did. How else could he have meant it?

You go quiet for a moment, waiting for your heart to stop thumping and the eddies in your brain to finish their tailspin. The air settles, the thump of his knife and the pouring rain the only sounds in the room until Charlie vacates the couch and curls up under your knees. You scratch her ears. She’s Beau’s cat; a striking likeness of his old cat, Gans, who you never got to meet. He brought Gans with him when he left Berlin, Charlie being the product of her and some tabby tomcat that liked to sleep in the barn and eat rats. You never understood it- Beau doesn’t even notice- but she doesn’t meow; she honks. You were nervous about it at first, but Beau simply laughed and said she had her mother’s voice. Since then, though, you’ve been thinking it’s very sweet. Her ears twitch under your fingers, and you smile as her purring is added to the near-silent cacophony.

You look at Beau again, who’s working on the filling and letting the crust cool, tossing herbs in the broth of the stew he’s let simmer for a few hours.

“So, what made Jade hire you so young?”

“Huh?”

“Well, she doesn’t really seem like the type to hire kids often. What made you so special?”

“Oh.”

He stops stirring for a moment, chewing on the corner of his lip.

“Well… It’s not that special. I was in boarding school, my father took off while I was gone, funding started running dry. Me and Jake were friends- Hell, I can’t say I even knew his grandmother owned a farm- and he found out what was going on. I guess he told Jade, because she sent a letter straight to my mother and offered to switch me to a different school, keep me housed and all that, as long as I helped out with chores. Of course, I said yes, then I wound up here.”

“Damn. So you weren’t… supposed to stay?”

He huffs a little, furrowing his brow and stirring with a little more force than is needed.

“It was for the better.”

You hypothesize as to why he’d rather stay. Despite the constant, horrible thrum of consciousness that fills your brain 18 hours a day, you always end up falling asleep before him. You get to contemplating the tapestry of scars that coat his skin- some deep, some shallow- and decide not to needle him about it.

“...Yeah, I get that.”

You watch him tip the peach mixture into the baked half-shell, weaving ribbons of raw dough into a lattice.

“Hey, why do you bake the bottom crust, but not the top one?”

“Top crust’s thinner. The gaps help it cook, too, and the peaches don’t really soak into the top, so it cooks quicker. If you don’t cook the bottom crust, it just boils.”

You’ve only been here a few months, but you’ve already gotten far too used to Beau’s cooking. He’s generally pretty good- According to him, he mostly learned to cook when he was younger, mostly for his mother’s ‘friend’- She half-raised him, so he grew up eating and cooking kosher for both of them, not to mention he grew up with the same holidays as you, again thanks to her: It’s really nice to have someone to celebrate with, who doesn’t spend every holiday either griping about the absence of apples or taking them all. He’s always talking about his recipes, how he plans out what he’ll make weeks and weeks before every occasion- You think he’s mostly just excited to be celebrating with someone else. He’s always asking you what you want tonight, what you think he should make, about the optimal lemon juice-to-water ratio for lemonade (apparently, you like it much sweeter than he does.) It’s almost sweet, in a way.

You ponder on just how well your bro bonding is going as you wait for the stew to finish simmering or the pie to finish, whichever happens first. Beau plays with Charlie on the rug as you finish your reread, and Beau leans towards you, handing you a bowl of the stuff.  
“Mind if I sit? I won’t get it on your sheets.”

“No, go for it. I swear to God, not even a drop, or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Not one,” he says, scooting you over.

He leans against you a little, and you stare at the pie on the counter. Charlie’s trying, with the desperation of a dying man, to scale the counter and grab the pie. When she gets too close, Beau just taps on his bowl and gives her a little bit of meat to distract her. Eventually, she moves on, playing with a yarn tassel Beau hung up for her.

You can’t stop your heart from fluttering again as he sets his head on your shoulder, vigilantly guarding the pie from Charlie.


	4. Cowboy Bullshit Extravaganza: Homos In The Garden (fuck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oooh what u gonna do dink u gonna cryyyy oooooooh

It’s not like you did it on purpose.

It was even less your intention to watch Beau head for Jake, who he can barely even acknowledge exists, as soon as he was alone for the first time in weeks, tending to the squash.

And it’s absolutely nothing like you followed him discreetly, hiding in the shed nearby the squash where they keep the tools, and hunkered down under the window to find out what their deal is.

This is all one big misunderstanding.

You take a knee under the window, figuring you may as well make the best of this completely random turn of events, and peek over ever so slightly out of the window, just so that the light doesn’t catch your glasses. It’s an overall nice, if gloomy day- The sky’s an even grey, the evergreens standing against the pallor of the heavens in the same rich green as Jake’s raincoat. Beau never really seems to bother with one- he just wears a normal coat and hopes for the best. It’s not raining hard anyway, no need to bother; just a little drizzle, a nice treat for the flowers.

Beau stands over Jake, who’s crouched low to the ground, getting mud on the soft inner flocking of his coat. Beau leans down and picks up the long backing, now coated in mud from the drizzle.

“Jade won’t be happy about this, you know.”

Jake simply shakes his head, not looking up from his squash.

“Well it’s easy to wash.”

They go silent, Jake continuing to prune the squash, Beau running his fingers intently over Jake’s coat for a little while. He’s making his thinky face at the soft interior, continuing to fidget with the rubbery fabric.

“You know I’d rather not be dragged away by the torso, thanks.”

Beau jumps, realizing he’s taken a bit too much of Jake’s coat, and now Jake is leaning back, one arm behind him to steady himself. Beau drops the fabric like it’s burnt him. Jake rights himself, something shaky in his voice.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Jake goes back to the squash, determined not to look any more at Beau than he has to, something in his resolve weakening. Beau simply keeps standing there, watching Jake work. Eventually, Beau hunkers down next to Jake, sitting on his heels, which are, thankfully, spur-free today. After a minute or two of silence, letting the dust of their last interaction settle, he nudges Jake with his shoulder.

“Jake.”

“Yes, Beau?”

Jake continues to work for a second, but stops with a little huff. Beau leans a bit forward, turning his head to look at Jake. He repeats himself, trying to greet Jake yet again.

“Hey.”

“Oh, what?”

Beau gently jabs at Jake again with his elbow, the corners of his lips pulling back a little, into the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen him host in a good long while. His voice takes on an air that makes him almost sound like he’s having fun. Almost… playful.

“Heeey.”

“My goodness, Beau. Have you anything to say?”

Beau leans into Jake a little- not enough to knock him over, but just so that he rests his head on Jake’s shoulder, just a bit.

“Never have, never will.”

Jake’s former chilly composure begins to waver as he looks down a bit at Beau, the edge of his face softening into some wry little smile he’d tell you an awful joke with.

“So you’re just here to bother me, dearest?”

“‘Course. What else am I here for?”

Jake laughs a little- such a sweet noise. Jingly but rich somehow, like everything he finds funny strikes him right through the ribs, fulfills that itch to be entertained deeply.

Jake sets his head on Beau’s, silence falling again. God, what are they, gay people? Damn. You’d say a slur if you weren’t such a stand-up guy. Best dude ever, right here. They aren’t, though. All squirrely and hesitant and shit. That’s gay behavior, right there. So gay. Wait, shit, they’re talking again. Shut up.

“...Jake.”

“Yes? Oh gosh, are we back at this?”

“Well, I… I came out here for a reason, y’know.”

Jake tilts his head inquisitively.

“And what reason would that be?”

“Well, I…” Beau scratches at the back of his neck, trying to find the words for something. He hesitates again before continuing, Jake having held back his flood of words just for him, doing his damndest to listen intently.

“I came out here to say I was sorry.”

Jake takes a moment of dramatic silence.

“...Was?”

Beau jabs him with his elbow again, laughing a bit.

“Oh, you know what I mean. Come on.”

Jake laughs as well, as he does at most things no matter the severity, shaking his head.

“I’m just glad to hear from you again.”

Sorry for what? Why can’t these assholes be more specific? God damn it, you don’t have all day. You have more important shit to do than getting a crick in your neck from looking over this fucking windowsill for twelve hours. Clearly they don’t, though; gay people rarely do. All they do is sit on silk couches and cry all the time. God, you can’t stand gay people. Or, at least, you wouldn’t be able to, if they existed at all. Beau keeps talking, blissfully unaware of your blatant, righteous pseudo-homophobia.

“I was just...worried. I met him, and he was all mysterious and fancy and pretty, and I just… I didn’t know if he’d change things.”

Jake looks down at him, visibly a little confused. “Change things?”

“I didn’t… I don’t know. The way you looked at him, the way you kissed him after the trail ride. I was starting to think you’d moved on.”

Jake’s hand flies to his chest, aghast with Beau’s accusation.

“Chicks on a raft! You thought I’d moved on?”

“Should I not have? You’ve barely been talking to me.”

“I thought you hated me! My goodness Beau, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I…”

Beau takes a moment to think and utilize the trademark Jake Face, a look of complete and utter bewilderment frequently seen after listening to Jake talk while nervous. Jake fidgets with the cuffs of his sleeves, in some grey space between relieved and terrified. After a pause, thankfully, as you’ve been waiting to hear what in the ever loving fuck they have to say next with bated breath, Beau speaks.

“Ok, yeah, that’s… that’s my bad.”

“Well, it’s not all yours of course, but… Well, I think we ought to talk about this stuff more.”

Beau huffs, pushing a bit of dirt aside with his foot. “Yeah… Yeah. Man, shutting up about stuff has never done any damn good for me.”

“I can attest to that!”

Beau chuckles, just a bit.

“Hah, yeah. That’s how November happened; God, remember that guy?”

“Goodness that’s a tongue twister, but… Yes, of course I remember him.”

Jake looks visibly disgusted at the thought of the… Month? Guy? You couldn’t say. Either way, Beau keeps talking about November, the entity no one told you about, even though you need to know everything all the time..

“Listen, I’m sorry to bring him up, but-”

“Beau, I’m not a violent man, but I really would love to-”

“Yes, I know, you want him died, I-”

“I don’t want anyone died! Dead! Fiddlesticks! It’s not that I hate Novvy dearest, I just-”

They continue to bicker about November, who is apparently a guy and not a measurement of time, for a few minutes. You slump under the window, taking a moment to think. Ok, let’s break that down.

So they’re… Ok. They were on bad terms because Beau thought Jake had… moved on. Moved on from what, you may ask? You being yourself, naturally, because you have to bounce everything off yourself like some existential echo chamber. God, you’re fucked up. Wait, shit, not the topic.

So Beau and Jake, judging by the context of what they said, are… Involved. I mean, it’s not like you care, Dave had tons of gay lovers. Romeo made really great pasta- you can’t say you minded his presence. Too bad him and Dave got in a fight because Dave had an episode and threw both his shoes at his mother. Like, seriously. One projectile shoe, sure. A crime of passion at worst. But two? That’s just intent, man, plain and simple. Shit! Come on, come on. Stay on track.

So Beau and Jake are involved in a way that doesn’t twist your stomach into a knot at all. In fact, you’ve never felt better. You are a virile, strong young… No. No! God damn it. Last time. Shit.

So they’re involved, which you really don’t care about that much. Next, they said your presence would… change things, presumably meaning they thought your presence would… mess up their relationship somehow. And Beau called you pretty and fancy and mysterious, which you’ll freak out over later because we already have three paragraphs of you being dysfunctional, so… So they gave each other the cold shoulder because Beau thought Jake was into you, and Jake stopped talking to Beau because he thought Beau was mad at him, which he… actually was. God, they’re so cringe. Oh, shit, they’re talking again.

“Ok, ok, let’s not talk about november.”

“He was an ass!”

Beau’s holding Jake by the shoulders, looking him in the eyes.

“He was. Just… He’s gone, and he’s not coming back. Ok? He’s probably in Kansas or something.”

Jake nods, still bitter at the thought of whoever the fuck this November guy is, but slowly letting go of the topic, muttering a few bitter remarks about Kansas and its grandmother.

“Listen. I’m gettin’ soaked out here, man. What do you think about takin’ a break in the barn for a bit?”

Jake looks skyward, eyes drinking in the fleecy, pale grey cast over the sky, the deep charcoal clouds closing in from the orchard. He takes a deep breath and turns back to beau, standing and stretching.

“Yes, that’ll be nice. You still have Katie’s old spirits stored up there, by any chance? I could do with relaxing a bit.”

Beau stands as well, following Jake towards the barn, struggling to keep up.

“Yep, still got ‘em. What, you lookin’ to take an early break?”

They take off walking and chatting, and you know you can’t just leave it here. I mean come on, we haven’t even gotten to the juicy part yet. Where’s the drama? The pining? The gentle stroking of pectorals? Man, fuck this. You’re getting there before they do.

You sneak around the shed and make a dash through the squash trellises, managing to get to the barn before they do. You run around back and hop up the stairs to the hayloft door- apparently, a precaution Jade set after someone burnt down the barn back in ‘78. That’s why the barn looks so new; it is. The staircase is rickety and tends to sway in the wind, Beau having advised you not to take them if you could manage it, but this is a unique set of circumstances.

You hop through the hayloft door, just as you hear the lock to the front doors click. You panic and hide near the top of the stack of hay bales, behind a few beams, invisible. Jake gets up the ladder first, his neck bent slightly to avoid bumping it on the ceiling. Beau scrambles up soon after, and makes a beeline for a spot in the corner. He digs through a pile of loose straw, before producing some sort of bundle, wrapped in a small tarp.

“There it is! Seems like Matt didn’t get to it this time, the bastard.”

Jake lays down in the large pile of loose straw before you- the whole pile has to be maybe ten, twelve feet high. Beau sits down next to him and takes out his pocket knife, popping out the corkscrew and twisting it into the neck of the bottle with great urgency. Jake looks to Beau, then out to the pasture, where the cows roam and graze, not noticing the drizzle.

“Who’ll take the cows in if not you?”

“Oh, those cows will come in if the rain starts bothering ‘em; their doors are wide open. If it gets too bad, well, Jade didn’t hire those hands for nothing. I’ve been workin’ my ass off.”

Jake laughs and leans back in the hay as Beau opens the bottle with a pop. He takes a drink from it, shaking his head and coughing a bit.

“Damn! Kate’s still good at what she does. Careful with that shit.”

Beau passes the bottle to Jake, and Jake sips from it as well, significantly less shaken; he seems to be tasting it.

“Hmm, goodness. Yes, it’s still quite strong. Doesn’t taste half bad, though.”

They talk and pass the bottle around for maybe an hour, joking and fooling around a bit, shoving each other to either side lightly- more playful than anything. You’ve taken out your pocket-sized poetry book to pass the time- the loft is surprisingly comfortable and warm, even with the rain. After a while of being utterly absorbed within the work of your favorite wordsmiths, you notice it’s gone mostly quiet. You look down over the bale and, finally, happen across some action.

Jake lies sprawled out in the haystack, Beau’s head on his chest. Beau is tracing his fingers along Jake’s knuckles, his fingers, which have taken a couple good handfuls of his shirt; All in all, a far gentler embrace than is common amongst mere bros.

“...Hey, Jake?”

Jake looks down at Beau, who has tilted his head to look up at him, hazy-eyed and far more soft-looking than you’ve ever seen him. Jake responds, a bit dizzy but otherwise alright.

“Yes?”

Beau’s eyes wander back down to where he’s holding Jake’s hand in his.

“You know… It’s really been too long since I’ve told you I loved you, man.”

“Five minutes is far too long, dear.”

Jake laughs for a moment, but Beau merely smiles fondly, going back to his distant sort of gaze towards his apparently-lover. He flips over, propping himself up on his elbow over Jake. He continues to speak, staring remorsefully into Jake’s eyes.

“I’m...I’m sorry I thought you’d left me. I jumped the gun and I shouldn’t have.”

Jake sets his hands on the small of Beau’s back, sliding them over the fabric of his shirt comfortingly, brushing the sides of his midsection ever so softly.

“No, no. We’re both guilty on that one. It isn’t just you, darling.”

As the tender embrace and ‘Sorry, Bro’s continue, Beau runs his hand down the side of Jake’s face lovingly, making your stomach burn just a bit. Must just think it’s gross. Beau’s voice is quiet and soft, barely rasping out at the volume he’s speaking at.

“You know, Jake… You’re just gorgeous. I don’t know how else to say it. You just… God, I’m not sure I’ve met someone prettier.”

Bias aside, of course he’s right; Jake really does have a nice face, one you’ve gotten far better acquainted with recently. His skin is smooth and soft, and his lips are ever-glossy and smooth, sage and honey on his breath. He looks up at Beau with those shiny green doe eyes of his, the same color as the evergreens in summer, as a bottle of fancy English bitters, and smiles a little, that lovely face of his slipping into something half-amused and palpably loving.

“You were going to say you loved me, weren’t you?”

“Well.... You know I’m no good at talking, Jake.”

Beau leans in, to the point where him and Jake can surely feel each other’s breath. Where their skin brushes against one another’s. Honey and tea and coffee and sage- soft and warm and gentle, the rasp of Beau’s calloused fingertips still so kind, but making his presence known.

“But I can tell you, with as much confidence as I have, that I love you more than anything.”

Beau closes the gap between him and Jake’s faces, and kisses him ever so gently, right on the lips. Jake melts into the kiss, running his hands through Beau’s hair, pulling him in harder like it’s been far, far too long, twisting his legs and pulling Beau into him, the whole embrace giving off an air of need, of missing someone and finally reuniting.

Your hand is clamped over your mouth as you stare down at them. It’s not too heated, so that’s not a worry for you, but no matter what, you feel as though you’ve just witnessed a moment you shouldn’t have seen. Shit… That’s what’s been going on? They’ve… Oh God, you should’ve seen it sooner.

The kind, longing way they look at each other. The sparse, lingering touches as not to arouse suspicion. The way they do all they can to score a few moments alone: You’d always just assumed all of it was just because they were close.

Now you’re recounting the conversation you had with Beau, while he was baking. The way he softened when he spoke of Jake- the haste in his hands fading, if just for a moment, the ghost of a smile that played at the edges of his mouth the moment he thought of him. The way he talks about Jake; like he’s his hero, like he’s this beautiful creature unlike any other.

And it is here, listening to rustling of hay and murmurs between lovers, that you realize you can’t stand it.

You can’t place exactly who you’re jealous of, or what. Whether it’s Jake or Beau or just the concept of being loved. The idea of being close.to anyone at all. But the whole exchange has your guts aching and your eyes stinging just a bit. Your skin prickles from within, longing to be held in the same way Beau was held, the same way he still is. Your lips itch like you’ve just gotten frisky with some poison ivy, and you can’t quite get your mind off the way Beau kissed Jake. The way you’ve never been kissed before. The way you wish, you wish, you wish you could be kissed.

It’s not them; it’s got nothing to do with them. Just a show of weakness, a longing for a girl you’ll probably never meet.

Your hand slides up your side, mimicking the way Jake’s did Beau’s, and chills shoot through your spine. You’ve never really been held; certainly not in the way Jake held him. Like he was something precious, something fragile, something to be cherished.

You shut your eyes wearily and lean back in the hay, arms crossed, sick with the knowledge you can’t leave until they do.


	5. Chapter 5 of Cowboy Bullshit Extravaganza: Gay People Are Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ENJOY MOTHERFUCKERS IVE BEEN WRITING FOR 5 HOURS AND I HAVE TO FUCKN

You feel just a little sick.

Beau and Jake have invited you along on one of their “personal” excursions, and you’re suspicious. You’ll be honest, ever since you saw them toe the line, almost dicking down in the barn, you’ve been wondering what’ll happen every time they’re off together. One time, Beau was in your mutual cabin with Jake, and you spent a whole five minutes sitting outside the door, wondering what your emergency response would be if one of them jizzed in your face, because clearly they’re fucking. Would you yell? Scream and run? Die? Of course, then Jake saw you in the window and gestured for you to come in; Jake had just come in for some cookies.

No one got jizzed on that day, to your knowledge and, presumably, Beau’s chagrin, because there’s just no way that guy tops. Not that you know what that is. You are a cisgender, heterosexual man, who was born with a penis that made the doctor insecure the moment he saw-

“Dirk!”

Fuck. You turn around, and Beau’s looking at you quizzically.

“You picked a damn horse yet?”

“Uh. Almost.”

“Ok, good. We don’t have all day, cowboy.”

Beau’s hand thwacks you between the shoulderblades and knocks the wind clear out of you. Little fuckin’ meat man, made of strong meat. You rub your shoulder sorely, thinking about how he tossed Jake right over his shoulder the other day when he wouldn’t leave the tomato patch, running off with him like he weighed about as much as a chicken. You don’t know why that’s been so stuck in your head; maybe it was the clear-as-day view of Jake’s ass, which has been burnt into your corneas since it happened. Hey, you’re not gay, but the guy has an ass you’d write home about, if Dave wouldn’t figure out where the fuck you are and come find you. He wasn’t particularly awful to you, he was just really annoying and cried a lot whenever you did anything. You were the laughingstock of the science fair when you inevitably won.

Wait, fuck, pick a horse. Come on.

You look over the stables, over the horses available. Peaches is out- Jake’s picked her, and you’d be too nervous to ride her anyway- and Millicent, Beau’s horse, is out of the question as well. It’s not that you’re scared of her, just… She’s a workhorse, and she’s bigger than some small houses you’ve seen. No wonder the guy walks so damn funny, he’s practically doing a split every time he rides the horse he loves so damn much. Haha. Rides. You bet he rides dick, too...

Damn it.

You could go with Grace Augustine, the horse you rode with Jake when you went down to the lake. No, no… She’s too big, and Beau says she tends to be irritable in anyone’s hands but Jake’s. There’s Spelt, but she strained her ankle last week and is now on bedrest. God, Beau lost his fucking mind over that. He screamed like a little girl and cried for an entire goddamn hour. You tried to ask him about it later, but he literally held you at gunpoint. Well, it wasn’t exactly a gun, it was a butter knife, but still. Dude’s fucked up and evil. Like you.

“Oh, just take Butterscotch if you’re going to stand there all day!”

You freeze; that must have been another five minutes. Butterscotch… He’s well behaved, but he’s the smallest horse in the stable. Who the hell does Beau think he is, giving you the smallest horse? Oh, fuck, you guess he just thinks he’s Beau. Guy can’t think.

he shoves his hand in your face, alongside Butterscotch’s reins.

“C’mon, we’ve been waiting twenty fuckin’ minutes for you to pick a goddamn horse!”

“...Oh. Sorry, man.”

You take the reins from Beau’s hand and give Butterscotch’s neck a pat. You walk over to the tack closet and tie him in place, hunting for his saddle. You tack him up and walk out briskly, knowing there’s a good chance Jake’s gotten bored and ran off to go climb a rock or something- Beau will be furious. You walk out and… Oh, he’s still here. Good. They’re talking, waiting for you, and Beau’s in a huff, as per usual.

“I told you this’d be a bad idea.”

Jake snorts at his accusation towards you, not exactly rushing to defend you, but still being quick about it.

“Oh, hush! I know he’s a little… odd, but he really opens up once you get him talking.”

“You think I don’t know that? We live together. Last night I was up an extra three hours ‘cause he wouldn’t stop muttering about the Romans or whatever. He’s dull as a hammer.”

Jake pinches his cheek, and Beau whines, his free hand on Jake’s wrist.

“You’re so darn rude sometimes.”

Beau groans jokingly, managing to pull away from Jake’s deathgrip.

“Just to you, honey.”

“...Uh. Guys?”

Beau jumps nearly a foot off the ground, brushing his hands on his jeans like he’s touched something. Jake rocks back on his heels so far he nearly falls backwards into poor Peaches, spreading the terror to his horse who, luckily, stays in place. Jake immediately rushes to speak to you, his voice high and pitchy.

“Oh, Dirk! You’re not exactly betimes, but it’s ever so good to see you regardless!”

You stand there in silence for a moment, as you ponder just how gay this all really is, before Jake speaks again.

“...Well, I’ve got quite an appentency to get going. Shall we, boys?”

Fuck yeah, you’ll go. Let’s go boys. Yeah, that’s right. You’re such a boy The boyest boy who’s ever boyed.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Beau scrambles up the side of Blueberry, the third workhorse on the farm. He’s carrying the majority of your luggage for the day, as Blue’s by far the biggest horse out of your selections, despite being the smallest of the draft horses. You and Jake have a couple little saddle bags to hold the candles and such, but you’re taking up the front, so it’s good you’ll be fast.

You joke and laugh all the way down the trail, Beau and Jake much less frosty than before. They know this route well, and their voices rise above the tapping of hooves on the trail like songbirds. You don’t chime in too much- with the rate they’re going at, it’d feel out of place- but you like listening to them. Jake’s speech patterns are theatrical and throaty, making everything sound like some Arthurian epic; it’s difficult to ignore him. Beau’s, on the other hand, catches your ear for a different reason; It’s exceedingly rough and raspy, like he’s been screaming for a few hours, which he probably has. It’s higher than you’d expect, with a clusterfuck of an accent, some terrible lovechild of German and Southern. Either way, you could listen to them go back and forth for hours. Their tones complement one another well- Jake’s a melodic, smooth palate cleanser for Beau’s monotone roughness. What can you say? The dudes have that Black Mesa Sweet Voice. You have no clue what that is, it’s 1895, but they do.

Eventually you get to the riverside, and wow. It’s gorgeous, just to start with; The water willows sway softly in the autumn breeze, and the ground is gaining a carpet of fallen leaves. Not too many have fallen yet, but, according to Jake, by next month all you’ll be able to see is swathes of red and orange. You’re the first off your horse, rotting leaves crunching under your boots. Jake pipes up, looking around.

“Goodness! If the bank is this gorgeous, I have to wonder how the embouchure looks!”

Beau nods, clearly having no clue what the hell just got said.

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s pretty there, too.”

Beau hops off his horse and gets to unpacking: Everything in you is telling you to help, but you know he’ll throw a fit if something’s wrong, so it’s best if he does it himself. You and Jake walk around the river after tying your horses up. 

You get a good way down the riverbank when you come across a section of rapids, white foam lapping at jagged rocks and smooth tree trunks. The river is a little narrower here, the bottom concealed by the tumultuous surface, the swath of water itself dotted with little island-like sects. There’s a fallen log connecting your side to one of the biggest islands; only maybe half a foot above water level. Jake glances at you and rolls his shoulders, puffing his chest out the way he does when he has a Jake Plan.

“Hey, Dirky?”

“Mhm?”

“You think I can cross that tree?”

You look at him like he just asked you if he had permission to fuck your dad.

“Hell no. Look at it; It’s slippery as hell, it’s too close to the water.”

“Well, I’ve got good boots on. I wouldn’t even have to go that far to get across; it’s just a few steps.”

He’s walking towards the log, and something’s telling you this is a bad idea.

“Jake, don’t do it.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine! Look at this thing; Maybe three steps at best! Plus, the water’s shallow enough here. I could probably stand in it.”

Before you can get another word in, he’s hopped onto the fallen tree, and is wobbily making his way along it. You take a step after him, a bit worried. He seems to be doing alright, though.

Until he falls.

It’s quick, and you barely had time to realize what was going on: He just slipped on a wet patch, and fell straight into the water. Judging by the way he disappeared headfirst, it’s way deeper than he thought. The water sweeps him away just as you figure out what happened, and you remember.

You can’t fucking swim.

You chase after him as he thrashes in the water, which is definitely frigid at this time of year, what with the temperature out. The riverbank gets clouded by a barrier of young trees you walked around as you came, and you lose him.

“Shit! Beau, Jake’s in the damn river!”

He yells back, faint and distant.

“He’s what?”

You get through the trees, sprinting down the bank, rounding a corner.

“He’s in the river!”

Beau yells back, but is quickly interrupted by… something. Judging by the distant, quiet sounds of struggling you hear, by spotting Jake.

“He’s- Fuck!”

You round the corner, and they’re both gone. You stand there for a few seconds, unsure of what to do, when Beau’s hand claws out of the water, and grabs the stake he used to nail down the horse ties. He struggles for a moment, gasping and trying to ward off the shock, trying to pull himself out of the water one-handed. You grab his arm, dig in your heels and put everything you have into pulling him onto shore. He gets his leg up and turns around, dragging his other arm out of the water, pulling a stirring, but weak Jake up with it. You grab Jake’s other arm and help Beau pull him onto the muddy bank.

Beau coughs for a moment, shaking his head and sniffing. Jake’s pent up on his elbows and is hacking up water, and you’re wondering what you should do when you remember; Beau mentioned bringing a couple blankets, as it’s rather cold and certain people get cold very easily. 

You have no idea who he meant, but it’s good he brought them.

You rifle through the saddle bag and pull out a big flannel quilt that looks warm. You run over to Jake, who’s not looking too good, and hesitantly wrap it around his shoulders.

“Here. Don’t want you freezing.”

He keeps coughing, but takes a moment to glance up at you gratefully. You take a couple steps over to Beau to make sure he’s okay, but he’s already on his feet, shaking off like a dog.

“Damn! That water’s got to be below freezing; that’s awful.”

Ok, good, he can speak at least.

“So you just… Jumped in after him?”

He looks up at you, brushing his hair out of his eyes.

“‘Course. Jake can swim fine, just… Only of his own volition.”

“Hm. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Beau takes a knee, helping a wheezing Jake sit up.

“You alright, dear? That was a rough fall.”

“Yes, yes, I’m…”

He coughs again, and Beau pats his shoulder, his other arm stretched around Jake, trying to warm him up a bit. He recovers, clears his throat, and keeps talking, beginning to shiver.

“Yes, I’m alright. Thanks for saving me, Prince Charming.”

They laugh a bit, Beau more so than Jake.

“Well, I’m happy to, so long as you’re ok.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and you awkwardly shuffle a bit. Beau turns around, finally noticing you again.

“Oh, Dirk. I’m going to try and hunt down Blueberry; she ran off when I jumped in. Jake won’t be able to ride on his own right now, and he’s got to get home. Mind staying with him?”

You shake your head, looking down at Jake, who’s eerily quiet.

“No, I don’t care. I can stay here.”

Beau gets up and firmly pats your shoulder. It strikes you just how warm his hand is, despite the cold dip he’s just had; his body temperature seems to be permanently on the border of feverish.

“Thanks.”

He turns around, looking at Jake.

“I’ll be right back, ok? Just have to find Blue.”

“Yes, yes… That’s alright. Good luck.”

Beau simply nods and runs off, knowing as well as you do that kind words mean nothing in the face of hypothermia.

You walk over to Jake and get him onto another blanket you set down; either way, further from the riverbank and off that muddy patch he got dragged onto. He curls further into himself, shaking like a little dog. His voice is high and pitchy, audibly shaking a bit.

“Jeepers creepers, Dirk! It’s been a good while since I’ve fallen into a river that cold; It should’ve glaciated by now at that sort of chill.”

“...Yeah. I didn’t fall in, but judging by when I pulled you out, it was pretty fucking cold.”

“Hah! Yes, yes. Good thing you didn’t… Beau wouldn't've had an easy time catching the both of us.”

“Yeah… yeah.”

You look at him, and the way he’s shaking makes you feel like you should be doing something. His breathing is shallow and he’s drawn in on himself in a way that tells you the blanket alone won’t cut it.

“...Hey, Jake?”

He looks over to you, wavy strands of dark hair plastered to his forehead.

“Oh, yes?”

“...You look really cold.”

He shrugs in his blanket, laughing.

“Well by jove, am I? I would never have noticed!”

“Heh. Come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well then how’d you mean it, dirky?”

You bite your cheek, thinking of how nervous Beau was about you ‘stealing’ Jake, and push those worries down for Jake’s sake.

“...Would you like to, you know… Come here for a bit? Not in a weird way, just… Just to keep you warm.”

Surprisingly, Jake doesn’t hesitate even for a moment- He shuffles right over to you and slumps onto your chest, making your stomach drop. Oh, God. Oh, no, he has to know. You swallow nervously and brace yourself.

“...Darn, Dirk! You’re really quite cuddly, y’know.”

He doesn’t make another comment, just wriggling closer to you, trying to maximize contact. Did he… Did he just not notice?

“Uh. Thanks, I guess.”

You awkwardly shuffle around a bit, putting an arm onto his shoulders. It’s only now, at this close of quarters, that you realize how broad Jake really is: His torso is nearly twice as thick as yours, and far softer. He’s very soft and slightly squishy, the light scruff coating his bitterly cold cheeks scratching at your shirt slightly. His arms curl in on himself, trying to keep all the warmth he can centered at his core, but either one’s nearly as thick as your leg. He’s not built, he’s fucking constructed, for goodness’ sake.

You run your fingers over the back of his neck, deciding not to make him talk and just letting him warm up for now, as you ponder who he is as a person. You think about Beau a lot, what with the two of you living together and him teaching you how to do most of the farm work you were hired for, but Jake’s played just as big a part of your life here. He’s introduced you to the neighbors, taught you how to care for bees (even though you won’t, they’re his bees), and shown you around his… collection.

You see, Jake’s a bit of a hoarder. His room is coated, floor to ceiling, in fancy little knickknacks he’s gathered over the years. The walls are ribbed with shelves and racks, showing off all kinds of little things people he’s met- mostly handsome young inventors- have given him. Ceramics, music boxes, even new practical inventions- Prototypes of new razors, drafts of better work boots, little pieces of new fabrics. Some are stretchy like chewing gum, others embroidered with unheard-of machines that you’d kill to get your hands on. It’s all so fascinating, and you’ve learned an incredible amount from all the little mechanical bits and pieces he’s let you borrow to study.

He shivers and shakes, and you wrap your arms around him tighter, shifting so he lies on his side, between your legs. Your face warms and you nudge him.

“Hey, I think you could use another blanket. This one’s soaked through.”

“...Oh. You’re right, buddy.”

He shrugs off the blanket, hurrying to pull on another. He sits up, pulling you into his arms, now that he has enough energy to properly hold you. He smells softly of marigolds and honey, the softness of his torso, his arms, his rough, slightly chalky climber’s hands brushing your skin, making your heart pound in your throat. He groans contentedly into your neck, presumably pleased with the warmth you offer. You wrap your hands around his forearm, reveling in just how small you feel in his arms.

But, for whatever reason, you can’t bring yourself to be upset about it.

“Hey, lovebirds. Found the horse.”

Oh, god fucking damn it.

Jake nearly throttles you in shock from Beau’s sudden presence, and you choke a bit from the force of the way he pulled his arms in, struggling to breathe even after he releases you. Jake’s voice is high and pitchy, like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“Oh, Beau! What’re you… Hah.”

Beau shakes his head, no malice in his expression. He has both his hands on Blueberry’s lead, and looks at the both of you with more mild exhaustion than annoyance.

“I’m not mad, Jake. You were cold, I don’t care. Your fingers fall off yet?”

Jake sighs relievedly, giving a little relaxed laugh.

“No, no. Thanks to Dirky here, I’ve still got ‘em.” 

Jake gestures vaguely to you, and Beau gives you a curt nod.

“Ok, good to know. Can we get the hell home before I freeze to death already?”

Jake nods gratefully; poor guy still isn’t dry yet.

“Please, let’s. It’s getting colder, and I have no intention of being out here all night.”

Beau takes Jake’s hand to help him onto Peaches, and tells him to just get home as quickly as he can, enlisting you to help him pack up.

“And, for god’s sakes, do NOT fall in another fucking river.”

“Oh, don’t worry, darling. Trust me, I want to avoid another dip as much as you do!”

Beau bites the inside of his cheek as Jake rides away, visibly nervous for his condition. You walk over to him awkwardly, kicking a pebble aside, unsure of what to say.

“Uh… Hey again.”

“Hey.”

You stare at his boots, unable to meet his eyes. He saw something he was never supposed to see; something you never meant to do.

“...I’m sorry about the Jake thing.”

He turns to you, visibly confused.

“Huh?”

“You know. There wasn’t… We weren’t trying to do anything when you got back.”

He looks at you, face tense.

“Did you think I was mad about it?”

“...Aren’t you?”

He snorts, his hands on his hips.

“Why the hell would I be mad? If you hadn’t held him, the poor guy would’ve gotten hypothermia. Nah, I ain’t mad. I know you, I know you didn’t mean him any harm, I don’t mind.”

He finishes his sentence with a little shake of his head, like a horse struggling with a few flies. He… Damn. You thought he’d have your head for that, judging by the fact that your very presence made him feel inferior. I mean, who can blame him; you are the resident huge-cocked, widow-making alpha male around these parts.

Eventually, though, as Beau’s packing up the things that were supposed to constitute your picnic site, your mind drifts from your inherent genital superiority. Your fingers drift across your neck, and you feel a tug in your gut. Jake’s hands linger on your skin, his soft perfume on your shirt. You pull up your collar and take a breath in, the tightness in your chest only coiling tighter.

Beau comes up behind you, brushing the dust off his hands and onto his jeans, leaning on Butterscotch’s saddle next to you.

“He’s really somethin’ special, isn’t he?”

You look at him, a little startled by the turn in conversation.

“Hm?”

He looks longingly into the distance, over the path jake rode away on maybe ten minutes ago.

“Jake’s a special guy.”

You go silent for a moment, and he tenses up, realizing what may have been a mistake.

“Oh, not like that. Just… He’s a nice fella, y’know. I’m sure you know that, right?”

Jake’s handsome form sways in your skull, and the longing for his attention fills your gut once more. You think back on your conversation, as you were walking the river, biding time for Beau to finish his little setup. You were talking about your mechanics- nothing special, just a new concept for a safer artificial light. He was looking down at you with this grin that you thought was condescending at first, but what he said next has stuck in your head since it left his lips.

“Y’know, Dirk, you’re far smarter than people give you credit for.”

Of course, you’ve known it for a very, very long time. You know your brain is huge and massive, just like your magnum dong. But hearing it from him felt… different. He said it like he really, really meant it. He says most things like he means them; he makes you feel seen in a way you never really have. You finally get out a reply to Beau.

“...Yeah. Yeah, I know that.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ever since the river incident, Beau’s been… weird.

He’s been using every minute of time outside of work feverishly spinning and dyeing and knitting something. The desk at the foot of his bed is taken up almost entirely by leather scraps, dyed and undyed wool, extra needles, thread; it looks like someone’s grandma just had an end-of-life crisis.

He spent half the week before last poring over the stove, messing with undyed wool bits and things you couldn’t imagine he’d have any use for; Dandelions, shredded carrots, onion skins, all sorts of scraps that used to end up in the mulch pile until he got his hands on them. Finally, though, he achieved whatever the hell he was trying to do for so long, as evidenced by his euphoria over a little piece of bright orange yarn and ecstatic shaking of poor Charlie. He spent the rest of the week before last dyeing, spinning, twisting and winding; his fingers were bright orange until just yesterday, but he’s been working away with a level of gusto you’ve rarely seen. The clacking of knitting needles has stretched from your late afternoons right up to the young hours of the morning for the last week, and you’ve had no idea why.

Until now.

He’s set a box on your bed, as you’re still sitting there, tinkering with a new little project you’ve had to keep yourself busy, chest puffed with pride, and instructed you to open it. Within seconds, his resolve is diminished, and he’s tapping on his toes like a little dog and scratching at your quilt like one, too.

You open the box, slightly nervous as to what it contains.

It’s the same bright orange yarn you’ve been seeing for the last few days. You take a bit of it in your hand and pull it out, trying to figure out what it is. You pull out a long, winding scarf with tassels at the ends; after that, a hat and gloves, both in a slightly lighter orange.

“Well? Try ‘em on!”

You look at him, baffled by this whole interaction; but you oblige.

The hat fits well enough- you’d never tell him this, but it’s been one of the only hats you’ve had that properly fits- and the gloves, if a little big, fit nicely. The bottoms and fingertips of the gloves are soft, treated leather: Clearly made so you could keep working in the cold. You look up at him, still bewildered.

“Are these… for me?”

“Well, who else would they be for, dumbass? I ain’t askin’ you to try on Jake’s damn hat for him!”

You look down at the knitted pieces, one question answered and five more popping into your head.

“...Why’d you make these for me?”

He runs to the window like he’s being chased and pulls back the curtain, revealing the light snowfall coating the valley. He isn’t wrong; it’s been freezing lately.

“Well, I can’t have you dyin’ out there, can I? You’re so cold all the darn time, you need somethin’ decent on your hands.”

“...How did you make these so fast?”

An unhealthy, yet familiar fanaticism in his eyes makes you a tad nervous.

“Determination, Dirk.”

Within about twenty minutes, you’ve gotten dressed in a hurry and now you’re hiking up a snowy hill with Beau. He’s excited; unsettlingly excited. He’s talking about the knitting and curing techniques he used to make the accessories you’re adorned with now which are, admittedly, very warm. You’re hopping over tree roots and weaving through evergreens and bald trunks, and you have no idea where you’re going.

After a good moment, Beau pulls you through a last wall of dying trees and you see what he meant.

He’s dragged you up to a cliffside, which overlooks the whole countryside for miles. You can see the edges of Jade’s farm, the cabin, even the little vein of shops a ways out from Jade’s. The outskirts of your vision dust with fog, the landscape decorated by evergreens.

It’s gorgeous.

“...Oh. Wow.”

But you still have concerns.

“...Are you gonna push me off?”

Beau breaks out into a laugh, looking back up at you for a moment.

“Hah! No, of course I won’t push you off. C’mon, sit down, I made tea.”

You and him sit down under one of the wide, conical evergreens, which shielded the ground from most of the snow. You sip on the flask of tea he brought you- chamomile, two sugars- and watch the fog blow over the tips of the trees in relative silence, until he inevitably breaks it.

“..Y’know, Dirk, I didn’t just bring you up here to look at the valley.”

“You didn’t?”

He shakes his head, visibly in very, very good spirits for the first time in a long time.

“No.”

He shifts a bit on his haunches, crossing his legs.

“I brought you up here because… well, y’know, you’ve been a big help to me since you got here.”

“...I have?”

He looks at you incredulously.

“Of course you have! I’ve actually… You know, I’ve actually had time to myself since you came. It hasn’t just been me keeping those seasonal hire idiots in line... It’s just good to have a guy around who actually knows what he’s doing.”

That whole thing took maybe three minutes for him to get out, including hesitations and nervous swigs from his flask, but… Damn. Beau never really seemed like the type to appreciate much, let alone you, so his words really register.

“I… Wow. Thanks.”

He scratches at the back of his neck, still fighting to get something out.

“Nah, no need to thank me.”

He fiddles with a loose string on the edge of his sleeve for a moment, chewing on his upper lip the way he does when he’s nervous.

“And I mean… I guess it isn’t just work.”

He continues, and you sit in silence, deciding to let him get through whatever he has to say.

“It’s just… good to have you around in general. No more holidays on my own, I don’t have to do everything by myself…”

He swallows nervously, looking away from you.

“It’s just easy to get lonely out here. Thanks for… Thanks for being here, Dirk.”

You look at him, entirely disconcerted by his words. He… Oh, wow. Something about the way he said it, the strain in his voice… 

Something about your view of him changes. 

He feels more… human. Softer. Watching him do all he can to get those words to you, to clarify to you that no, he doesn’t hate you, he’s just not good at saying it. You run your fingers over the careful knitting of the gloves, the messy, yet sturdy hand-stitching of the leather pads on the palms. You can practically feel his hands working, hear his thoughts wondering if you’ll like them, or if they fit right.

He was right; you feel much warmer.

You elbow him a bit, offering him a rare, once-in-a-lifetime half-smile.

“Hey, no need to be nervous. It’s good to be here.”

He looks back at you, tense at first, but he quickly softens again, laughing at your joke, turning back forwards. You take a moment to note the little scar over the corner of his mouth, the one you noticed on your first day here. Another moment to appreciate the faint, soft freckles right on his temples and his cheekbones, his neon limoncello eyes, framed by see-through eyelashes.

He’s much sweeter to look at now that you can see him up close.

He turns his face back to you, and you can practically feel his breath. Earl grey and rosemary, that lingering scent of wood smoke on his jacket that you’ve grown to love.

“Good to know we’re both doing alright.”


	6. Chapter 6 of Cowboy Bullshit Extravaganza: trans gener ?????

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i want to call him a slur so bad

Well.

The wind howls outside and whips at the doors, knocking the windows against their frames, the clatter with every gust rattling off in your head like a gunshot. Snow beats at the glass, but the house is kept warm by the stove, which Beau’s had running for a few hours, simmering a nice sort of stew that he insists is the best possible thing to eat when it’s this damn cold out and you still have work to do, which, of course, he does.

He’s been out for a few hours, taking care of the horses and the cows, who are also plenty cold in this weather, while the seasonal-hire boys- only maybe five or so, now that summer and fall are over- care for the cows and sheep under his watch. You took care of the rabbits and the chickens earlier today; three dozen fresh eggs are split even between you and the Englishes’ iceboxes, and the rabbits chew their alfalfa peacefully, waiting out the snow.

The doorknob jiggles, stuck again, and you turn towards the door. Beau flings open the door, every inch of him caked in snow, and slams the door behind him with great urgency. He makes a sort of sputtering whinny noise, as he does whenever he’s feeling strongly any particular way. stamping his boots and hurrying to peel away the layers of winter clothing he left in.

“Damn! Nearly froze to death out there!”

He ruffles his hair, removing the majority of the ice that slipped through his hats. He shakes off like a dog, tossing his coats over the rack by the door. You turn around on the rug by the stove in the corner, facing him.

“So the storm got worse after I came inside?”

He looks up at you incredulously, blinking at you through strands of coarse, wet hair.

“Well, no shit! Have you looked outside?”

“Hey, it was a joke. You good?”

He huffs and rips away the final coat, giving a hard shiver and another sputter.

“Yeah, I’m alright. I could use a damn bath, though. I’ll be back in a bit.”

He shakes a little and makes a beeline to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. You stay by the fire, pondering for a moment, and decide to make some tea for the two of you for when he gets out. You fill up the kettle with water, tea leaves, and sugar, and set it on the stove, using up the residual heat. It takes a while to boil- as will anything in this weather- but, after nearly thirty minutes, the whistling scares Charlie and you pour yourself a cup. You sit on the couch by the fire, waiting for the cup of scalding leaf water to cool its fucking jets, and Beau steps out, damp but seemingly much more content.

“I made some tea, if you wanted some.”

He turns to the range, picking up the kettle and a mug.

“Oh, really? Fantastic.”

He sits right down next to you, settling into the couch. You’ve been getting more used to his presence recently- It’s much easier to appreciate someone’s company when you know he doesn’t hate your guts, after all- and him yours. He’s still the same Beau you’ve known for a good while now, but something about him feels… different. Warmer, almost. Well, metaphorically, you’re pretty sure if he got any warmer he’d burn to death.

You don’t think about it much- of course you don’t, you’re not gay, not even a little bit at all- but he smells really, really good. Like, seriously, what is it with the guys around here and just smelling nice? You’re not bad by any means, you make sure of that, but damn it, Jake smells like daffodils. All the time. Beau brushed by you to get in bed after a bath one time, and the guy smelled like a fucking herb garden. Do gay people just… do that? Is it just a homo’s natural musk? You wouldn’t know. It’s not like their skin is soft either. Jake’s skin is silky and smooth just about everywhere, Beau’s is chapped on his hands but soft otherwise. Their lips are soft, too- not like you’d know, you just have to guess. I mean, how could you not? Just looking at them, you can tell. It’s not like you look at their lips often, though. Of course you don’t.

It’s not like you watch Jake gallivant through the fields in his flowy, see-through shirts, tits bouncing gaily, or the way his muscles flex when he climbs those damn rocks, light glancing off his glasses, only a mockup of the true, gut-twisting opulence of his face, of his body, as you wonder how he can cope with living in a form so beautiful, a true masterpiece, trapped and bound in flesh. Oh, how you long to hold him! The act of being in his presence is draining of itself; the superfluity of emotion that comes over you whenever you so much as see him makes you wonder how you cope with speaking to him; you can’t fathom how you didn’t melt to mush the last time he swept you up in his arms, his joyous laugh ringing through your skull like the sweetest honeyed gunshot.

And of course you don’t watch Beau stretch out over his bed in a damp, tight cotton shirt every night, eyes wandering over his form, thinking of that one time he kinda hugged you and how warm his shirt was from the sunlight, how soft yet strong and capable he felt, just how gentle he really was with you, how safe you felt in his arms, riled up in the freezing sheets, which now feel far too warm, doing all you can to linger on the memory of those habile hands of his, entrapped in the fantasy of what it would be like if you were in bed together, the kindness of his touch finally, finally bringing you peace.

In a bro way, of course.

“Dirk? Oh, you’re doing the thing.”

Your head snaps towards him, your limbs weak from your Brain Tyrade. Oh, damn it, you got carried away again. See, he’s known you long enough to recognize when you’re doing this- only part of the horrifying ordeal of being known, you tell yourself- and, apparently, he thinks you’re doing it now.

“Huh?”

“I was talking about Spelt. She’s recovering well. Should be fine by spring.”

“Oh, really? Good to hear; she’s a good horse.”

He immediately launches into his usual rhetoric as to why Spelt is so underrated: He raised her from a foal and trained her himself, so he’s gotten attached. Very attached.

He talks for a little and you continue on with your ruminations, before he practically leaps out of his seat and makes for the stove.

“Shit! Mother fucking schgh…”

He trails off in a sort of phlegmy growl, the way he does when he gets caught on a word. He doesn’t get stuck often, but enough that you’ve noticed the habit.

He lifts the lid off the pot and stirs it vigorously, tossing in a handful of chopped herbs he had waiting on the side.

“Just in time. It’ll still taste fine.”

He makes his way back towards you after a minute, handing you a bowl of the stuff. He sits down on the couch next to you, with a very upset Charlie pinned, gently but firmly, under his elbows. She screams and gripes at the absence of beef in her mouth for a moment, but Beau gives her a bit from his spoon, as usual. Not too much, as there are onions and garlic in the stew, but enough to keep her at bay for a little while.

As he sits there, scritching at Charlie’s ears and defending his meal, you can’t help but trace your eyes over him.

While he’s not usually wrapped head to toe in denim, you don’t often get to see him dressed like this during the day. His shirt is loose and warm-looking, top button undone revealing a bit more neck than you usually get. Thin, winding scars lattice his neck, his arms, his hands, little clusters of dimples around his jaw and cheekbones all working to draw your eyes. Your eyes catch on one set of thick, angry-looking claw marks down his neck, presumably onto his chest.

“Hey, Beau?”

He grunts a bit, acknowledging you, narrowly managing to catch Charlie by the scruff of her wrinkly neck at her latest attempt to get the stew: As you wait on bated breath to cut in, he mutters to her sternly. “No, kitty. Not for you. You’ll get sick, liebling.”

He turns his attention back to you, setting Charlie on the floor.

“Sorry. What is it?”

You stare at his neck; the marks look relatively new- maybe a year, a year and a half old now.

“Where’d you get those scars from?”

He looks over himself; oh. He’s sort of a patchwork quilt- half his skin is scar tissue.

“Oh. Here, this one.”

Before you think about what you’re doing too hard, your finger presses right into his chest. He freezes, looking down at where you pointed. Oh, god, you just poked him in the tit. You withdraw your hand quickly, nearly spilling your stew.

“Oh. Sorry about that, man.”

He simply shakes his head, still looking down.

“No, no, I don’t mind. This one?”

He jabs a finger at where you just poked him, which is to say directly at his tit, and you nod.

“I got that one from a cougar last December. I was out herding sheep, and it wanted a piece of ‘em. I tried to stop it, and it got to me. I have a few more around here from that damn thing; here.”

He points to a pair of cuts on his jaw, around the same age as the ones on his chest. Your eyes begin to wander to the divoted pockmarks around his cheekbones, down his jaw. You point to those, making sure not to jab him in the throat.

“And what about these?”

“Oh, those. Yeah, I caught the pox when I was younger- we didn’t lose anyone, thankfully.”

You point to one right over his cheekbone; it’s barely visible, but seems pretty substantial.

“And this?”

That time, he hesitates. He opens his mouth, then grinds his teeth a little, rubbing a hand over his cheek sorely; like it was still new. Oh, shit, sore subject. He’s going to hate you forever. He liked you for a minute, then bam, it’s over. He hates you so much. Shit. Your mouth is dry, your hands are weak. You’re going to die. You’re gonna turn to dust right here, right now. You can feel your skin crumbling away as you speak. You never existed, Dirk. Just kidding, maybe you’ve always existed. Maybe you’re everything. Who knows? You could be god. Maybe.

“Oh, that.”

He looks away, avoiding eye contact.

“Well… My, uh. My father got me with a shovel. I thought it’d be funny to shove him into the ditch he was digging. It wasn’t funny.”

“...Oh.”

You sit there, shifting uncomfortably, as he chews on the inside of his lip, as he always does when he’s nervous or thinking, his teeth poking over his upper lip a bit. He’s had an underbite as long as Jake’s known him, at least, making his big, tusklike teeth escape his mouth frequently. 

You shift nervously.

“...Sorry I brought it up, dude.”

He just shakes his head, his tone grimmer than usual.

“No, no. It’s alright. It was bound to happen- half of ‘em are from before I figured out I’d die if I stayed with my folks.”

You simply nod, fidgeting with your shirtsleeves. Eventually, though, the Strider Curiosity overcomes social sense.

“...If I can ask, which… Well, which one’s the worst? I get it if it’s a sensitive subject, just… you know. Have to ask.”

Beau looks around his hands, over himself, unsure of what to do next. Eventually he tugs at his shirt a little bit, setting his stew aside.

“Well, the worst one’s on my back. Here, let me just…”

He tugs his shirt right over his head. Just like that. He shivers a little in the cold air, and there’s a lot of things you notice.

Firstly, holy fucking SHIT. The guy’s built as hell- he isn’t super defined, but he’s built like a garbage truck, a metaphor you wouldn’t use as garbage trucks don’t exist yet, but it’s the most accurate metaphor for just how this dude is. Secondly, he’s coated in a lacy overlay of various scars- pockmarks, slices, burns, everything you could think of. Some new, some very, very old.

Third, he has tits.

Not in a buff way, he has tits. Well, in a buff way, too, but that’s for later.

You thought… God. You had no idea that there were other guys… let alone him... 

He’s like you.

You guess you’re staring, because he looks over to you, mildly confused.

“Dirk?”

“I…”

He looks around, clearly confused, then looks down at his chest.

“Something wrong?”

“No, no, just… You have… Uh.”

Come on, Dirk. Don’t be weird.

“Um.”

Don’t do it.

“...Breasts. Big ones.”

You fucking did it.

He looks down, then looks at you, clearly confused.

“And? Didn’t you know?”

You freeze. Didn’t you… Didn’t you what now?

“Didn’t I know?”

“Dirk. You’ve seen me soaked to the skin more times than I can count; hell, I’ve changed in front of you, for fuck’s sake! You didn’t realize?”

Your face flushes warm, and you glance away.

“I didn’t… I didn’t look.”

He looks clearly confused, now much more clearly so than a minute ago.

“Why!? How?”

“I didn’t… I wanted to be respectful.”

He pauses for a moment, then snorts.

“R… Respectful?”

“Yeah. Something wrong with that?”

He bursts into laughter, tossing his head back and cackling.

“Something… Dirk! You didn’t notice ever?”

God, why do you feel so embarrassed? It’s not like you did something wrong- you didn’t. You know you didn’t. So why is he making fun of you?

“What if… Well, what if you had really big chest muscles? I’ve seen guys like that.”

“Which guys?”

Before thinking, you spit out your first thought.

“Jake.”

Beau dissolves into hysterics, his voice high and heady over the crackle of the fire and your tapping on the floor. God, why did you say Jake!? Why the hell would you do that??? You just looked this dude in the eyes, said ‘damn bro, nice tits, your boyfriend has good ones too’! What the hell is wrong with you???

That’s it. You need to flee the country. You need to leave and run away forever. Pack your bags again, Dirk, you’ve done another thing that makes you so fucked up and evil that you will never recover. Never ever forever. You’re done, man. Adios, your shit’s wrecked. Your life is over, your friendships destroyed. You will burn your bridges and move on, as is the life of a true philosopher. It is truly a curse to be you.

Oh god, oh fuck, Beau’s leaning on you.

His forearm leans on your shoulder as he practically sobs of laughter- you still can’t find out what’s so funny about you faking your death and leaving the country- and his tit brushes you.

You either go through the seven stages of grief or develop a massive ghost boner.

Yeah, fuck it, you did both.

“Dirk, you… Hah! You fucking… Jake?”

“Hey, stop laughing, dumbass. The confusion is valid. My guy’s got some honkin’ bazoombas.”

His laughter skids to a stop and his face scrunches, staring a hole into the couch. He taps his fingers on your shoulder, slathering chills thickly over your skin, making it feel like electricity crackles in your veins.

“That… Oh, come on. That can’t possibly be real English.”

“N… No. I made it up. It was me all along, Beau. I was the real inventor of English. Fuck it, I made language as a whole. I made language my bitch. I-”

He puts his hand over your mouth, laughing a bit.

“Oh, shut up, you old blowhard.”

Your face heats further, and you realize. His arm’s around you now, and there is a booby on your arm. There is a sexy hot man closer to you than any sexy hot man has ever been before. Not that beau is hot and sexy at all! Men are not sexy or hot to you, ever. They never will be, because you are a raging hetero. Come on, come on, think of women. Ladies. Girls who do things like… Like be girls. Who are girls. And not men. And are pretty. And… Sexy. Because girls are sexy. They are so sexy and beautiful to you, because you are attracted to women. You are so attracted to women and ladies and people who are women.

Beau leans into your line of sight, trying to get your attention.

“Hey, it’s alright. I don’t mind; we’re both men, it’s not weird.”

That would be a lot less gay if you didn’t literally see him kissing a man yesterday! He kisses men all the time and he also has sex with men which you would never do because you aren’t gay! You have never pictured Beau and Jake fucking and what that would look like and those thoughts are not rushing back and becoming very, very relatable now that they’re working with the same parts you are. You could never, ever picture being fucked by Jake or Beau ever, because they are men and you don’t-

Beau thumps you on the back, and you wheeze, taking a deep breath in.

“You almost passed out, damn it! Get it together, Dirk.”

You breathe slowly but shakily, trying to unwind your brain a bit. Come on, come on, it’s not weird. He might be into guys, but you’re not.

You look slowly over to him, and finally take him in outside of shock.

His skin is a sort of eggshell tone below where his collar and sleeves usually rest. He’s sprinkled gently with freckles and scarring, and holy shit this man is pretty muscular. Your stomach leaps for what must just be you thinking gay people are weird reasons at the sight of him- No wonder he’s so strong, the man’s straight muscle. There’s no sort of six-pack-abs going on, but he looks like he could crush you like a can. His torso really adds to the rest of him; his shoulders look broader, his arms thicker, everything more in proportion.

All of a sudden he pulls into you, yelping.

“Agh! Charlie! Damn it!”

Charlie has dug her claws into Beau’s skin as punishment for being so, so cruel to her and not offering her more meat. He reaches down and carefully unhinges her little toes from his arm, wincing.

“Damn. See, this is why I don’t spend too long undressed. This little monster takes every opportunity she gets to give me hell.”

He sighs and shakes his head, looking back to you.

“You know what we were talking about?”

You shake your head haplessly, of no help to his cause.

“Not a clue, dude.”

You shift a little, looking at him.

“So you… You know. People thought you were a girl at first?”

He nods gravely, his arm still around you, his other one gesturing as he talks, Charlie slinking away in the background, having had her taste of blood.

“Yes, they did. That’s part of why I took off; I introduced myself as a boy at first to try and get a better job than teacher or housewife, then I figured I rather liked it.”

You nod, and he raises an eyebrow at you.

“You did the same? You didn’t react the same way most did.”

You gulp, wondering what to say. You could back out now, but what would be the point? There wouldn’t be one- there’s no use in hiding it from him. But also, could you actually manage to get it out? You’re not sure you could put the words together.

You elect to simply nod.

He punches you lightly on the arm, nodding.

“Well, in that case, good to have you.”

He leans forwards, pulling on his shirt, and you finally have the guts to look at him again.

“My. That clears the air, doesn’t it?”

“I… Yeah. Yeah, it really does.”

You take a deep, shaky breath. You and Tory, Kate’s brother, picked up some new clothes for you on the way. He cut your hair in a hotel room, and the time you got here was the first time you’d gone by Dirk to anyone but Kate. That’s part of the reason you and her got so close, you think- People thought she was a man, but she wasn’t. People thought you were a girl, but you weren’t. You saw how she escaped from it, how she ran from Canada (reportedly) and fled to wherever the hell you are now, and wished to emulate her. She’s twenty now- a few months older than you- and happier than ever.

And honestly, this whole thing has helped you, too.

Beau’s honest treatment of you, everyone not hesitating for a moment to treat you, to see you as you are. Here, you’re Dirk. You’ve been told you’re honest, if not a little eccentric, serious and hardworking. A good, strong man, as Jade said. 

You look over at Beau, the first person you’ve told in person, the first person you actually saw outside of Kate who… Actually, he’s the first one in your exact lane. Kate’s a girl, and you never were. He has the same problems you have, has dealt with the same struggles with people, with himself. You fiddle with the cuffs of your shirt again, watching him, so comfortable around you, a new sense of serenity making its home within you.

For once, you’re not alone.


	7. Cowboy Bullshit Extravaganza: u ever cuddle your bros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh my god im so sick of him. please stop talking about hands

The breeze is biting cold from the last remnants of winter, wind lashing at your face.

Your hands are numb, even with your gloves, which are slightly faded after a few months of use.

But this still isn’t a bad gig for springtime. 

The seasonal ranchhands are working in the fields, planting the crops for summer and fall in the even-more-frigid mud, and you sure as hell don’t envy Beau, who’s currently acting as midwife for the cows.

You’re holding the ladder for Jake, who’s pruning the apple trees, now that the snow has melted and the trees won’t drop two tons of snow on you when you’re up there. It’s mind-bendingly boring, as you complained to Beau this morning, but then he offered you a job with the cows, since they have quite a few new heifers this year and he’ll be short-staffed for sure, and you took off without another complaint.

“We’re nearly done, pally. Come on; just a couple more branches!”

Comforting words, or they would be if he hadn’t said the same thing an hour ago. But, this time, you get through a few more trees and he comes off his ladder, stretching.

“Well, that was a job well done, old boy. We’ve taken care of half the orchard!”

“...I guess we have. What now?”

Jake leans back against the tree he just pruned, scratching at his depression stubble thoughtfully. He’s handsomely tousled and slightly damp from both the humidity and the remaining snow, making the soft waves of his hair stick to his forehead; it’s a little long, hanging around his ears, as he hasn’t managed to get to a hairdresser recently. He says he just doesn’t want Jade cutting it again- she always gets his ears with the scissors- and Beau’s been too busy. You offered to trim it, but he took a good, hard look at your sword and politely declined.

Suddenly, he points upwards, like he just realized something important.

“Ah! What do you say we head to the pub, buddy? Have you been yet?”

Have you… Huh? No. You, him, and Beau all turned 20 in December- a weird ass coincidence, only eased by Beau’s birthday being maybe 2 weeks after yours- but you’re all still below drinking age.

“I… No? That’s illegal.”

He thumps you on the back, right between the shoulderblades.

“Oh Dirk, sweetie. My existence is illegal.”

“Wh… What do you mean?”

He looks at you quizzically, before gesturing to his poofy trousers, embroidered boots, and poet’s shirt.

“...Dressing like an idiot?”

“No! Think harder.”

“Ok…Like a guy with very poor eyesight?”

“No! Like a fucking fruit, Dirk.”

You go silent, looking over him. Jake’s been… open about being gay since you met him. Wide open. Honestly about as open as it gets. More open than Beau’s legs. Ha. Owned. The dude gallivants around fields of tall grass in pearl necklaces and flowy shirts with the fancy british boys Jade says he likes so much in his free time. You can’t say it was a surprise, but… still. You answer quietly- it could be called sheepish, if it weren’t such a huge masculine man with a huge masculine dong saying it.

“...Oh.”

“Well? You didn’t know?”

“I mean… I don’t know. I’m not… like that, so it’s not like I would know.”

He seems astounded, and raises an eyebrow at you, before spouting a quote you’d never have expected.

“You aren’t gay? Since when?”

You stand there, mouth agape, flabbergasted. You’ve never mentioned being gay to him. All you talk about is girls and how much you don’t love a good strong man’s juicy, bouncy, bodaciously soft and squishy cleavage. Honkers. Milkers, one could say, if they were feeling spicy. God.

...Ok, maybe it was just a little more reasonable than you thought. Still super wrong, though.

“I… Since forever. I’m not gay, Jake.”

He seems astounded at your clarification, leaning in with a quizzical look on his face.

“Really? You walk around in your little suits with your little kerchiefs, and you do sort of sleep right next to a man.”

“Hey. Separate beds.”

“You two haven’t even slept together once???”

“N… No. Why the hell would we do that.”

“I mean, he is pretty cuddly. He’s surly at first, but he’s really quite warm and cushy once you get a good hold on him.”

You shake your head and cross your arms defensively.

“Okay, this conversation is over. I’m not gay, you’re gay, got it. I’m not drinking.”

Jake clasps his hands and gets on his knees in order to look up at you sweetly.

“Oh, please? Beau doesn’t drink either, and he’ll be coming along!”

You hesitate. On the one hand, you don’t drink and a bar sounds like the worst possible place to go ever because you will die. On the other… You haven’t had a night out in… ever. Know what, fuck it. You’ll try it.

“...Ok. I’ll go.”

Jake springs to his feet, grabbing the clippers he used on the trees and dashing off in the other direction.

“Oh, wonderful! You mind checking in on Beau and seeing how long it’ll take him? I’ll go get ready!”

Before you can say another word, Jake dashes off, apparently sure that Beau will come along, too. You sigh, knowing that you have to put the ladder in the barn anyway, and move on.

As you approach the cattle barn, the smell hits you. An odd sort of metallic tang and what’s probably piss; the cows are loud enough, and Beau’s muttering something.

You duck into the equipment cubby right by the doors, you catch a look at Beau. He’s kneeling on the straw-covered floor, far wetter than he should be, and is messing with some twisted, slimy mess of white and reddish brown. Your stomach turns, and you put the ladder where it should be when you hear a series of awful choking noises, some sigh of relief, and scuttling.

You lean around the corner hesitantly, barely looking, and Beau’s on one knee, watching the new calf and its mother. You shuffle as close to him as you can stand to get; it seems like he’s been there for a while, and you don’t dare step in whatever miscellaneous fluids coat the floor. Not only a slipping hazard, but super, super gross.

“Uh… Beau.”

He turns around, visibly pretty beat. You know he’s been here at least all night- he’s been up for far too long.

“Hm?”

“Uh. How’s… How’s it going down here?”

He walks over to the washbasin in the corner of the barn with a sigh, scrubbing off carefully. The sleeves of his shirt- rolled up to his shoulders- are soaked as well, but he knows that as well as you do.

“Well. Had a pair of twins last night. Both are healthy- only lost one calf from the whole herd.”

“...You lost one?”

He nods, drying his hands and forearms.

“Mhm. We usually lose at least one. Mom’s fine, though.”

He picks up the shovel and begins scraping away at the wet hay and... other stuff on the floors. You grit your teeth and take a second shovel, deciding you ought to help him.

“Well… Uh. Good I guess? Sorry you lost that one.”

He shakes his head, stumbling along like he’s exhausted.

“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it. Not sure she even noticed.”

You both go quiet for a minute, and you speak up again.

“...So. You’ve been out here for… how long?”

He shakes his head.

“Nearly two days now. Been able to get a couple hours of sleep here and there, but it’s been way too long.”

“So you’re pretty tired, huh.”

He nods with a little grunt, continuing his work without another word. You decide to leave him to it, continuing to help.

After about ten minutes, the barn’s in acceptable condition, the cinnamon-sugar cows all tired and happy, and Beau’s washing off in the sink again. He’s taken his shirt off, considering the whole thing was soaked down in what you’ve elected to call ‘juices’, in exchange for a mustard-yellow one from somewhere in the box of bullshit he keeps in here. He straightens, rolling his shoulders, and pats you softer than usual. Must be exhausted.

“Thanks for helpin’. I think I’m gonna just get in the bath and pass out in there, at this point.”

“...No problem. Jake asked me if you wanted to head out to the bar later, though.”

He looks up, tired as you’ve ever seen him.

“...Bailey’s?”

You nod.

“They cook well, too. I’ve got no plans to cook tonight- I’ll go. Gimme a little bit for a nap.”

You nod, and he stumbles away, exhausted. You stretch and follow him back to the cabin, in order to relax before you leave.

A few hours later, just as the sun is setting, Beau is back on his feet, sleepy but in good spirits, and you’re in full regalia. Three-piece suit, fancy leather shoes- everything. Beau walks out in his button-up and blue jeans, and you realize you’ve gone horribly wrong somewhere.

“...Dirk?”

“Y… Yeah?”

“What on earth are you wearing?”

You scuff your shoes on the floor nervously, and scratch at the back of your hand.

“Uh… I thought we were going out.”

“We’re going out to a dive bar, Dirk. They might let you in if you showed up naked.”

Your face heats up as you realize that you’re horribly overdressed, and you shrug off your jacket and the flowers in its lapel, Jake’s comment on your gay little suits coming to mind. Beau pats your shoulder and starts walking.

“C’mon, you’re good with just the vest. Let’s get a move on.”

You stop for a moment before following after him, making sure to at least bring your jacket because it’s still cold out there, as he grabs his other, ‘fancier’ peacoat from the rack. The two of you hike up to the farm house where Jake’s presumably still getting ready, and Beau bangs on the door like it called his mother a whore.

“Jake! You coming?”

You wait a moment in chilly, still silence, and he sighs.

“Must’ve gotten bored and gone to sleep. Hold on, I’ll get him.”

Instead of going through the front door like anyone with an amount of common fucking sense, he trudges over to the side of the house and scurries up the siding, knocking on Jake’s window vigorously. Eventually, a sleepy, yet relatively well-dressed Jake opens up the window and helps Beau in; a minute or two later they come out the front door. Jake’s rumpled and beaming, and Beau’s lagging behind him, half-asleep.

“Alrighty then! Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

You rock on your heels, fidgeting slightly. This is the first time you’ve ever really… gone anywhere with them. Well, ok, not entirely true, revision. Jake takes you out to dance halls every now and then, and you elect to sit in the corner and tap your foot with what may or not be a rhythm- no one would know whether you were trying or not, so you couldn’t embarrass yourself.

Foolproof plan.

“...Dirk?”

You start, and realize you’ve been thinking very hard about Jake swaying in the refracted light of the chandeliers, handsomely tousled- a particularly lovely sort of wreck.

“Dirk!”

“Uh...Yeah. yeah, let’s… Let’s go.”

“Splendid!”

The three of you band together and head down to the main road, dedicated in your quest to get to the damn bar already.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wow.

You know, you really thought you’d be a little more… used to being in public areas than this.

Maybe there’s a reason Beau insists you’re a shut-in.

You lean down, coughing after your most recent attempt at downing a bit of whiskey. No one told you just how disgusting it really was; flaming dishwater, as far as you’re concerned.

Jake, who is significantly more inebriated than you, thumps you on the back and laughs at your suffering. No one gets it. You’re sitting there writhing in agony until Beau offers you a glass of water, looking slightly uncomfortable. Your head is already spinning from the little bit you’ve managed to get down- you’ve never even dared to have a drink of coffee, let alone alcohol.

You drink the water like it’s the nectar of life, and Beau has Jake by the ear, trying to get him to drink his.

“Come on, Jake. You’ll feel awful in the morning. Just a little bit.”

“No, come on! Who’s got any use for water?”

“See, this is why we had to call the doctor for your damn stones. Drink some water. Come on.”

You set your head on the table, trying to stave off the vertigo and tune out Jake and Beau’s bickering. Eventually, Jake wanders off to go dance, having given into Beau’s needling about the water, but still stuck with a grievous case of the zoomies.

Beau leans back, sipping his water, poking you lightly.

“You look awful. Take another drink- we should get you a biscuit or something.”

You nod, sitting up and taking another sip of water. He turns to you, looking relieved after his success in hydrating his friends.

“So, what do you think?”

You turn to him, lips still on the glass.

“Hm?”

“What do you think of the place? You’ve barely been out since you got here- I’m guessing it’s a lot different than Texas. I wouldn’t know: I’ve never been.”

You trace lines in the ring of condensation your glass left on the table, thinking. Overall, the whole experience has been… a new thing in and of itself. There are so many factors that you really don’t know if you actually like it or if you’re just finally getting what you want for once. This is the first time you’ve actually lived as… well, yourself. How can you say this is a good life if you have nothing else to compare it to?

You look over to him, at the way he grasps at his glass, focusing on his fingers as you think. He knows what you mean. He knows damn well what you mean. This place was the first time he’d ever lived under his own name before, too. What does he make of it?

You drag your eyes up to his, and try to communicate all the things you don’t dare say in a crowded bar without using your voice.

“...Well… It’s weird, I guess. Not much to compare it to. What do you think of it?”

He looks down, and you go back to looking at his hands. His thumbs glide over the condensation around the edges of his glass, tapping on it with a pleasant little noise you can barely hear over the din. The scars that coat his hands, some deep and some shallow, crinkle and twist with the movement.

“...Hm. Tough one.”

“Hey, you asked me the same thing.”

He huffs, hesitating before setting his other hand on the table. He’s got a habit of holding things, no matter what they are, with two hands- it doesn’t cause him much trouble, you’re not sure he even knows, but you can’t help but notice.

“...Well. It’s better for a long list of reasons- more than I can really put into words.”

He taps on the table and you rest your head on the palm of your hand, watching him fidget with the water droplets, smearing them into swathes of water only for them to separate again. You feel like Charlie watching the feathers dangle from their string- you can’t look away.

“You know. There’s the whole ordeal with what life was like before all this. Things weren’t… great then, to say the least. Now I live with some of my dearest friends, spending my days doing what I love. Of course this is better.”

He squeezes the glass lightly, straining his hands just a bit.

“And, of course… Well, I’ve never felt more like myself. It’s a particular sort of freedom that I really don’t know how to put into words. My life… It’s mine, now.”

You make eye contact, and his face tenses a little, unwilling to let any other scrap of information slip for the sake of both of your safety.

“You know what I mean.”

You sit there for a moment, then nod.

“...Yeah. Yeah, I think I do.”

The waitress, a friend of Beau’s, comes by with you, him, and Jake’s meals, and the conversation tapers off on a satisfying note. Beau hollers for Jake, and he stumbles over, the whole ordeal perfectly timed with his energy to square dance and tolerance for being bumped around by strangers entirely depleted. 

After an hour of talking and eating, the three of you catch a carriage home. Beau says he plans to check on the livestock one last time- those seasonal farmhands never do a good job, after all, and he’s been too busy to check on them. You’re a little worried for the state of his mind, as he’s barely caught a few hours of rest in the last few days, but he insists he’s fine and he’ll be in soon enough. You take his word for it and take a good bath, lying on your bed and reading to pass the time, before you hear a knock on the door.

Beau nearly never knocks, plus he carries a key, so you have… no idea who this is.

You walk over to the window to check and see who’s at the door- it’s Jake. He looks very disheveled and very cold, considering how he seems to have lost his pants somwhere. You open the door, sighing. You’re in your miseries again.

He shivers before you, knees knocking, britches flapping in the spring winds.

“Hey Dirk! Ah… Mind if I come inside?”

You look down at his boxers suspiciously, then back up at him.

“...Where are your pants.”

“Oh those? I decided it was a little too warm for pants so I took them off. Then I changed my mind but I’d kind of thrown them down a hill already so I think I’ve lost them forever.”

You stand there, in total disbelief.

Or, at least, you would be, if this wasn’t about the tenth time this has happened since you got here.

You step aside and he makes a mad dash to the fireplace, shivering. You stand before Beau’s chest of drawers, muster up some courage, and open the drawer in which he keeps a few spare sets of clothes for Jake. You toss a set of pants and a shirt at him, and he starts changing in front of the fire. You turn around- god, what is it with these damn cowboys and stripping at any given opportunity- and turn around once you hear him sit back down. You sit next to him, one of the more polite and, thankfully, house-trained barn cats, Winnie, in his arms. She’s massive but very gentle, and Charlie’s trying to get in there, too.

You get why; if you were a cat, you’d certainly want to lie in Jake’s lap. His thighs are soft and supple, and come together to form a perfect pillow when he sits. His fingers are sturdy and careful and overall perfect for scritching. The soft glow of the fireplace illuminates him just so, the cool, pale grey fabric of his shirt contrasting with his warm, dark skin, making him look as if he glows from within.

He’s lovely.

Something in you stirs ever so slightly. Your resolve grows weak, and you scoot next to him.

You just sit there, hips and shoulders and thighs touching in one long strip of skin and fabric, until he makes a move and sets his head on your shoulder.

There are about a hundred thoughts suddenly rushing through your head like wheat from a silo, a hundred thoughts you should be thinking, but you can’t bring yourself to think them. Your brain is filled with a hum, a soft, melodic din. You think you’ve imagined it until you look down and notice Jake’s humming, gently scratching at Winnie’s chin. He leans into you a little, and something gives.

You melt where you sit, no more solid than candle wax. With nothing more than a shuffle and a smile, you’re putty in his hands. Your sternum aches, begging, pleading with you to do something. What, you can’t say; the only want you can say you feel right now is the want for more of this. The need to take his flesh in fistfuls and just engulf yourself in his warm, silken, kind touch.

Winnie gets bored of being held and elects to play with Charlie instead, leaving Jake’s hands free. He looks up at you, Helbing-green eyes making your hands feel weak, the way your nails were digging into your palms neutralized, as he’s drained away whatever strength you had. 

He brings his hand up to your face, setting it on your cheek. You tense at his touch- not out of fear or distaste, but out of sheer shock. Literally. It’s like you have a face full of batteries, you jaw aching, your face warm for more reasons than you can count.

You set your hand on his, unable to look away from him. He’s lovely in the firelight, and he simply shakily smiles at you, a beam unlike any other. Your knees turn to saltwater, your mouth tastes of blood. He laughs slightly, mournfully, a light, jingling noise- an undeniably joyous one that makes you feel as though you’ve been swept away by the tide that’s claimed your kneecaps already.

He looks thoughtful, those lovely eyes of his dropping to the floor, running his thumb over your face as he thinks. He looks up at you again, confusion all over his visage. You never noticed the subtleties in how he looked until now- not like this. The tiny birthmark, right in the crease of his eyelid. The little thin patch in his eyebrow, the lushness of his eyelashes. His face is a masterpiece unlike any other, that you have not truly had time or faculties to look at until now.

“...Dirk?”

You can’t form words. Your throat hasn’t closed up, but your tongue feels limp and numb, barely able to move.

“Mhm?”

“Do you…”

He hesitates, brows creasing with tension. Like he’s trying to word things carefully. Like he knows the way you cling to every syllable, every word out of his mouth right now, and can’t fuck this up.

“...Do you… you know…”

You lean in a little, wondering what he struggles so to get out.

“...Do you hate me?”

You’re… taken aback. Disliking him is a thought you may have considered a few times, in a past which seems so distant, considering how a few seconds ago feels like years right now. Right now, looking at him, touching him, you feel like he’s the most wonderful thing in the world. A treasure, a unique work of art, an abstract concept worthy of worship with how flawless he really is.

You’re at a loss for words. You sputter and scrounge for the words you need, the words you won’t allow yourself to say in their entirety, before he presses a finger to your lips, stopping you in your tracks.

“...Oh, it’s alright. I know you’re all polite, you don’t have to be rude. I’ll go look around for-”

“No!”

He tries to turn around, to leave, sure that you detest him. He got to his knees before you leapt over and flung yourself over his shoulders like a mink coat, not even considering allowing him to leave under the impression that you did not love him.

“No… No. I don’t… I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you at all.”

He raises an eyebrow, slightly confused.

“But… What was all that?”

“W… What?”

He gestures with his hands, clearly confused.

“Well I don’t know! I tried to put my head on your shoulder and you just sort of… gave me the stinkeye for a while.”

“I… Huh?”

“And when we were cutting the trees! It was clear as day you didn't want to go with me but I hate going alone! I felt awful for making you come along!”

You sit there, utterly flabbergasted. He… No. No! Damn it, Dirk. You’re fucked up and evil. You made him think you hated him so much when you lie awake at night thinking about having a future with him. Kids and the farm and all that shit. The whole shebang. You have dreams about him. Not dirty dreams! They aren’t. You’re not the one fucking him- it’s usually Beau. You don’t know why you keep dreaming about Jake and Beau fucking, but the point is you accept and love gay people so much that you dream about them fucking and wake up with a ghost boner three times a week.

Damn it. Back to the point.

“...No? I didn’t think that at all.”

He sputters, flapping his hands around disorientedly.

“Well then why were you looking at me like that? Like I was a cat shit on your shoe!”

“...That’s… That’s how I look at things. Or so I’ve been told.”

Your mind drifts to Beau, who enjoys barking at you when you look at him, apparently, like he’s a really ugly baby. Which he actually was, judging by the pictures Jake showed you behind close doors, but that isn’t important.

“Point is, no, I don’t hate you at all. The bar was… Fun.”

He hesitates for a moment, before looking down at you hopefully.

“...Really?”

“Yes. Absolutely yes. I don’t mind hanging out with you at all.”

He stops for a moment, before he sighs and laughs with what you can only describe as sheer relief. He drops back down to sitting on the floor, you sliding right back down with him. He runs a hand through his hair, and looks down at you, smiling with a certain glow you can’t put into words. Him and Jade have these feelings surrounding them- with Jade it’s this inevitable nothingness, this sense of a delicate balance of being that you don’t dare disturb. With Jake, it’s this sort of… Light. This glowing, sweet, tender energy that is so infectious you find yourself, in all your miseries, forgetting about all the terrible ways the universe could use to inevitably end your life.

“Well… Oh, that’s nice. I was so worried! You just…”

He takes the back of your head in his hand, which is the size of a damn dinner plate, cradling you in his arms as he looks at you with so, so much affection.

“You’re one of my best friends. You’re so interesting and funny and wonderful and I just… I love having you around. I love listening to your stories and watching you mess with your little robots and… I love knowing you, Dirk.”

You sit there, in his arms, reeling from his words. Interesting. Wonderful. You sit there and contemplate the fact that yes, yes, he knows you. He knows you. Not only does he know you, he loves you.

Your eyes burn and you tremble before him, shaking with the knowledge that, not only are you acknowledged, you are adored. You are not loved as a woman, not for how good you are at keeping quiet, you are not loved for your services: You are loved for your stories, for your robots, for you.

You are loved for being Dirk.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, and your eyes fill with tears.

“I…”

Without a word, he holds you tighter, his hand on the back of your head, your face in his shoulder, his arm around your torso. You’re in his lap, you’re held, you’re loved. Even the way he holds you, like you’re something to be cherished, makes you tremble with more of a vengeance. He loves you. He loves you.

You can only bring yourself to mutter what you needed to say more than anything into his shoulder. Not loudly, not looking him in the eyes. A tearful whimper into his shirt.

“...You, too. I love knowing you, too.”

He simply laughs a bit, running his hand through your hair, still damp from your bath, before moving his arm down your side gently, in a soft, undeniably kind caress that sends shocks up and down your spine- you feel every muscle fiber in your body thrum with bloodflow, your bones ache with the pressure of your entire body bearing down on them. You think of the barn, of the way Jake stroked Beau, of the way you longed for that, and the way you’re finally, finally getting it.

After a few hours, Jake leaves, Beau leading him back to the house. You snuck Jake’s shirt into your bed, you hold it in your hands, you press it to your face, recounting his particular smell. Daffodils and clover and that unique, fresh sort of rosewater-lavender-type scent that hangs around him. Like warm sunlight and green fields and dying summer flowers, the warmth of his skin, the way he found it so easy to coax you into unleashing more emotion than you’ve ever released over the course of your entire life in the span of only a few minutes.

You stop for a moment before rolling onto your back in the dark room, the fire glowing low, Beau snoring next to you. You set the shirt on your chest, and think one thought, overwhelmingly louder than all the others.

You’re not gay.


End file.
